THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 


AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


Z- 


BY 
MINNETTE 

SLAYBACK- 

,  CARPER. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/danceofdeathotheOOslayrich 


THE   DANCE   OF   DEATH. 


AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


BY 


MINNETTE  SLAYBACK-CARPER. 


.With  Illustrations  by  the  Author. 


BUXTON  &  Skinner,  Publishers, 

ST.  LOUIS,  MO. 

1894. 


<\^,^^ 


'-'''H^ 


Copyright,  1894, 

By  MINNBTTB  SLAYBACK-CAKPBB. 


CONTENTS: 

i.  the  dance  of  death. 

2.  Miss  Kemball. 

3.  after  the  storm. 

4.  The  lady  of  the  Gulf. 


IVI203617 


THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 

It  was  in  the  good  oH  times  at  Paris.  There  is 
no  city  like.  Paris.  One  can  be  a  thorough  bo- 
hemian,  and  a  society  man  at  the  same  time. 
Thus,  then,  I  Hved.  I  knew  men  among  the 
artists  and  poets  and  actors,  and  was  intimate  with 
exquisites  of  the  highest  aristocracy.  My  parents 
were  rich.  My  life  was  spent  in  one  ceaseless 
search  after  pleasure.  I  loved  many  times.  I  had 
seen  beautiful  women,  proud  and  noble,  whom 
men  worshipped.  I  worshipped  also.  I  was 
young  and  impetuous;  the  women  always  liked 
me;  but  I  gave  my  heart  up  entirely  when  I  met 
La  Joie. 

It  was  one  evening  when  I  had  gone  to  the 
opera  with  my  friend  Julien  Enterre,  the  mysteri- 
ous, the  beautiful.  No  one  had  ever  been  in  his 
lodgings,  that  we  knew  of.  His  valet  was  allowed 
only  in  the  dressing  cabinet.  We  penetrated  as 
far  as  the  smoking  room,  and  a  tiny  place  he  called 
the  study — a  fascinating  nook,  hung  with  pale 


10  THE  DANCE   OF  DEATH. 

silks  and  containing  rare  bits  of  water-color  paint- 
ing and  dainty  china.  We  were  never  asked  to 
go  farther — not  even  I,  his  good  friend.  Enterre 
fairly  lived  at  the  theatre  of  evenings,  but  went 
always  alone.  After  the  play  he  quickly  disap- 
peared. I  suspected  him  of  many  things,  but  he 
had  been  away  from  Paris  for  so  long,  that  our 
acquaintance  was  compelled  a  new  start.  This 
evening  he  had  asked  me  to  accompany  him  and 
I  consented  to  go.  We  sat  in  perfect  seats  in  the 
stalls.  I  had  been  gazing  at  friends  in  the  boxes, 
and  was  whispering  in  Enterre's  ear,  when  he 
suddenly  said: 

"Hush!  The  ballet,  and  La  Joie!'' 
His  manner  was  too  excited  to  escape  notice. 
Then  I  looked  at  the  stage.  The  beautiful  crea- 
ture dancing  was  perfectly  formed  beyond  dreams. 
She  was  young,  one  could  see,  with  an  exquisite 
face,  and  neck  and  arms  like  a  Venus;  and  as  her 
gauzy  skirts  dipped  up  and  down  around  her,  she 
danced  with  grace  unexcelled.  The  stalls  were  full 
of  men.  When  she  finished,  she  blew  a  kiss  and 
indulged  in  a  fleeting  smile  that  seemed  to  caress 
the  whole  audience.  Yet  it  appeared  to  my  con- 
ceited fancy,  that  she  looked  in  my  direction  for 


THE  DANCE   OF  DEATH.  11 

just  a  passing  second)  longer  than  in  another. 
There  was  a  storm  of  applause,  which  brought  her 
tripping  back  to  the  footlights.  They  were  not 
content  with  her  merely  bowing,  however,  so  the 
music  began,  and  she  repeated  the  swaying  move- 
ments that  were  the  very  poetry  of  motion. 

A  full  pink  rosebud  decorated  Enterre's  coat 
lapel.  At  the  end  of  the  dance  he  extracted  this, 
and  flung  it  upon  the  stage.  It  fell  at  her  feet 
amongst  bouquets  and  other  roses,  but  she  picked 
out  Enterre's  rose  and  kissed  it  toward  the  audi- 
ence.   Julien  stood. 

"Come!"  he  said,  "She  will  not  dance  again.  It 
is  near  the  end." 

I  was  not  at  all  willing  to  depart,  but  being 
Enterre's  guest,  I  followed  him  as  he  went  out. 

"Would  you  care  to  meet  her?"  he  asked  out- 
side. "Come,  I  will  take  you.  She  has  the  most 
enjoyable  little  suppers.  You  will  find  there 
Delrois  and  Leblanc — others  too,  who  think  she 
is  beautiful  and  witty.  One  night  you  may  forego 
your  foolish  society  lounging." 

"My  dear  Enterre,"  I  said.  "Nothing  pleases 
me  better  than  the  prospect.  If  you  will  assure 
me  of  a  welcome." 


12  THE  DANCE   OF  DEATH. 

"You  are  my  friend,"  he  answered  simply. 

I  accompanied  him  gladly  enough.  Mademoi- 
selle had  not  yet  arrived  from  the  theatre  when  we 
reached  her  apartments,  but  would  soon  return. 
The  room  that  we  were  ushered  into  was  a  charm- 
ing one  which  no  money  had  been  spared  to  make 
beautiful.  Enterre  strode  up  to  a  small  picture 
that  hung  rather  back  from  observation,  and  stood 
there  long,  looking  at  it.  I  approached,  and  saw 
over  his  shoulder  that  it  was  a  young  married 
couple  in  their  honeymoon.  My  friend  turned 
away  with  a  quick  sigh. 

'What  is  the  matter,  Enterre?"  I  cried,  clapping 
him  upon  the  back.     "You  are  so  queer  of  late." 

"Yes,  I  am  queer — of  late,"  he  said. 

Two  other  men  came  in,  both  of  whom  we 
knew.  Then  rose  the  sound  of  much  laughter 
and  many  voices.  Enterre  stood  at  a  table  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves  of  a  book. 

"Enterre,"  I  whispered,  "I  do  not  know  La 
Joie." 

"True,"  he  laughed,  "and  she  is  very  particular 
about  having  people  presented." 

And  then  the  door  opened,  and  she  entered,  fol- 


THE   DANCE   OF  DEATH.  13 

lowed  by  a  great  crowd  of  gentlemen,  and  not 
another  woman  in  sight  but  her  maid.  She  wore 
a  long  carriage  cloak,  which  she  presently  threw 
off,  leaving,  to  my  surprise,  only  her  ballet  cos- 
tume with  its  short  fluffy  skirts  and  pink  tights.  I 
was  duly  presented,  and  then  merely  watched  her 
as  she  sat  in  a  big  chair  chatting  busily  with  the 
crowd  of  men  about  her.  There  were  at  least 
fifteen  of  them  scattered  around  the  room,  most 
of  them  grouped  near  La  Joie.  Of  the  remaining 
few  who  talked  among  themselves,  I  remember 
Enterre  was  one.  He  apparently  listened  to  a 
man  with  long  hair  and  a  bright  face.  In  reality 
his  thoughts  were  with  La  Joie,  as  she  merrily 
laughed  and  conversed.  He  occasionally  glanced 
at  her  with  such  a  light  in  his  eyes  as  only  accom- 
panies fervent  love.  Enterre  bewitched  by  the 
ballet-dancer!  At  the  time  I  thought  how  fooHsh 
it  was. 

This  same  dailseuse,  however,  was  able  to  keep 
those  men  at  her  side  in  fascinated  attention  until 
supper  was  announced.  Then,  with  wild  mirth 
they  escorted  her  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  sat 
them  down.  There  was  no  lavish  extravagance 
in  the  supper,  with  the  exception  of  the  wines. 


14  THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 

The  wine  was  always  the  same,  they  told  me,  and 
Mile.  La  Joie  did  not  pay  for  it.  It  was  sent  to 
her  as  a  friendly  present,  always  anonymously. 
One  of  the  toasts,  I  remember,  was  to  the  wine; 
and  then  to  the  giver  of  the  wine.  La  Joie  her- 
self proposed  the  latter.  I  noticed  she  did  not 
drink  much.  One  glass  was  slowly  sipped  during 
the  meal.  She  made  up  for  it  in  gay  speeches 
that  flashed  from  her  sweet  lips  as  champagne 
bubbles  from  the  bottom  of  the  glass. 

"Now,  Mademoiselle,  will  you  dance?"  said  one. 

There  was  a  great  clamor  then,  a  rattling  of 
glassware,  and  noisy  cries.  They  rose  to  their 
feet  and  bore  away  the  dishes  from  the  table, 
piling  them  pell-mell  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and 
the  cloth  at  the  top.  Mademoiselle  motioned  to 
a  musical  genius,  who  disappeared  in  the  next 
room,  and  soon  the  piano  answered  to  his  fingers 
the  gayest  strains.  Smiling,  so  that  her  fine  white 
teeth  sparkled  between  her  parted  lips.  La  Joie 
sprang  upon  the  long  table,  and  there  danced.  I 
shall  never  forget.  It  was  better  than  the  stage 
dancing,  for  here  one  could  see  her  face  and  its 
bright  expression,  and  view  well  the  toes  as  they 
flashed  about  on  the  dark  wood.    Now  her  slender 


THE  DANCE   OF  DEATH.  15 

body  curved  and  swayed  like  a  tall  poplar  tossed 
by  the  wind;  now  she  spun  about  till  the  short 
skirts  were  horizontal,  and  now — she  made  a 
mocking  bow  and  ceased,  and  sat  upon  the  table 
laughing.  She  was  beautiful  then.  Her  hair  was 
blue-black,  her  skin  pale,  she  was  peculiar  in  that 
she  would  use  no  cosmetiques — no  rouge.  Her 
eyes  were  a  clear,  pure  grey,  with  no  blue  about 
them,  but  they  were  eyes  that  spoke.  Her  mouth 
was  exquisite ;  her  chin  such  that  one  longed  to 
take  it  in  one's  hand,  and  beneath  the  chin,  at  the 
throat  was  a  heavenly  place  for  a  kiss.  She  smiled 
at  me  when  she  saw  me  dart  forward  with  the  rest, 
and  with  that  smile  she  won  my  allegiance,  as  I 
knew  she  had  conquered  that  of  Enterre  and  many 
others.  I  flung  care  to  the  winds.  "The  others" 
might  go, — I  could  find  another  to  take  Enterre's 
place,  but  there  was  not  a  second  La  Joie. 

Enterre  and  I  were  the  last  ones  to  leave  that 
night;  we  lingered  for  a  moment  after  the  rest 
had  gone.  She  was  very  friendly  to  Enterre  in  a 
charming,  frank  way,  so  that  a  little  green  spot 
burned  up  in  my  heart.  I  managed  to  whisper 
and  ask  what  were  her  favorite  flowers. 

"I  shall  not  tell  you,''  she  laughed  back.     "But 


16  THE  BANCE   OF  DEATH. 

if  you  desire  to  be  foolish,  you  may  send  me  crim- 
son roses/^ 

I  looked  across  the  room  to  a  cabinet  where  in 
a  white  bowl,  a  great  mass  of  violets  lay.  She  saw 
my  glance.  She  looked  first  at  me,  then  at 
Enterre,  a  spirit  of  mischief  in  her  eyes;  then  she 
crossed  the  room  and  pressed  a  kiss  upon  the 
blue  flowers.  Enterre  turned  away,  his  face  crim- 
son. 

"How  angry  he  grows,"  I  thought.  "Shall  I 
ever  be  so  foolish  over  her,  I  wonder?" 

We  made  our  adieus  and  went  as  far  as  the 
street  when  Enterre  cried  hastily: 

"Wait  a  moment,"  and  returned  up  the  stair- 
case. He  kept  me  for  some  time  waiting.  I 
paced  up  and  down  the  pavement,  going  over  all 
her  guests,  endeavoring  to  trace  the  sender  of  the 
violets.  When  at  last  he  appeared  there  was  a 
bunch  of  violets  in  his  lapel,  and  on  his  face  a  look 
I  had  never  seen  before.  I  warn  you  to  be  watch- 
ful of  such  beautiful  men. 

To  say  that  I  went  to  the  theatre  often,  after 
that,  would  but  faintly  intimate  the  manner  in 
which  I  haunted  the  footlights.  Night  after  night 
found  me  at  the  play,  and  with  but  little  trouble  I 


THE  DANCE   OF   DEATH.  17 

could  always  discover  Enterre.  We  spoke  more 
coldly.  I  now  attended  La  Joie's  little  suppers  by 
myself.  There  was  always  a  joyous  crowd  of 
young  men  at  them,  always  the  mysterious  and 
fascinating,  delicious  wines;  always  the  bowl  of 
fresh  violets,  and  always  Enterre  stayed  latest.  I 
fell  madly  in  love.  I  repaired  to  La  Joie^s  every 
night  and  felt  a  craving  desire  to  strangle  my 
friend  and  to  dash  the  bowl  of  blue  flowers  upon 
the  hearth.  Enterre  only  grew  more  beautiful 
and  more  distrait  as  the  days  passed.  A  settled 
melancholy  filled  his  eyes,  and  enhanced  their 
sweet  expression,  but  La  Joie  seemed  to  notice 
him  less  and  less. 

I  often  passed  Mademoiselle's  lodgings  in  the 
day-time.  One  day  late  in  the  forenoon  I  saw  her, 
accompanied  by  a  maid,  issue  forth  with  her  arms 
full  of  flowers.  Among  them  I  felt  sure  were 
the  red  roses  I  had  ordered  for  her  that  morning. 
I  had  often  sent  them,  but  they  were  never  visible 
in  her  apartments.  Now  I  followed  as  she  walked 
rapidly  up  the  street  to  a  poor-looking  house, 
which  she  entered.  I  waited  in  the  cafe  till  she 
re-appeared — empty-handed. 

"We  shall  see,"  I  said. 


18  THE  DANCE    OF    DEATH. 

When  she  was  once  again  inside  her  own  door, 
I  returned  across  the  street  to  the  shabby  tene- 
ment. I  knocked  as  I  had  seen  Mademoiselle  do. 
A  feeble  voice  from  within  said:  "Entrez,"  and  I 
entered  a  small,  dark  room.  A  pale  child  sat 
huddled  up  in  pillows,  and  in  his  hands  and  in  a 
vase  upon  the  table  were  roses — red,  white  and 
pink — a  wealth  of  them. 

"Was  that  Mile.  La  Joie  who  was  just  here,  my 
little  one?"  I  asked. 

"Is  that  her  name,  Monsieur?"  asked  the  child 
in  return.  "She  would  never  tell  me.  La  Joie. 
It  suits  her.  She  has  just  given  me  much  happi- 
ness. She  often  brings  me  flowers.  Best  of  all  I 
love  the  red  roses.  She  tells  me  she  does  not 
bring  all  she  has,  but  she  shares  equally  with  me. 
She  has  many  flowers — and  oh!  she  is  so  beauti- 
ful!    She  must  be  glad  to  live." 

"Poor  little  man,  so  she  is,"  I  said.  I  dropped 
a  coin  down  upon  the  pillow,  and  went  quickly 
from  the  room. 

That  afternoon,  Pantreaux,  one  of  the  men  who 
were  frequently  at  La  Joie's  suppers,  came  to  me 
with  a  plan.  We  were  to  go  to  the  theatre  that 
evening,  each  with  our  favorite  flower  pinned  on 


THE    DANCE    OF    DEATH.  19 

his  coat,  roses  preferred.  At  the  end  of  La  Joie's 
dance  we  were  to  rain  the  blossoms  upon  her. 
There  were  many  in  the  secret. 

The  evening  came.  I  wore  a  rose  with  a  color 
like  blood.  Enterre  sat  near  me.  His  button- 
hole held  two  buds — one  pink,  the  other  white.  I 
wondered  at  this — my  curiosity  was  always  like  a 
woman's. 

La  Joie  danced  as  she  nerer  had  before.  It 
was  in  a  most  eccentric  fancy  named  "The  Dance 
of  Death."  Her  tights  were  black,  the  low-cut 
bodice  and  the  filmy  skirts.  Her  black  hair  was 
in  keeping  with  the  toilette.  The  chorus  was 
also  in  black;  but  who  heeded  the  chorus?  When 
her  dance  ceased,  lo !  from  a  hundred  hands  came 
as  many  roses  and  more — red  and  white,  pink  and 
yellow,  they  fell  about  her,  and  she  stood  swaying 
and  laughing  at  the  charge.  And  then  she 
stooped  and  picked  up  something  that  glistened 
as  she  raised  it.  She  kissed  it  and  thrust  it  in  her 
black  hair.  It  was  a  silver  arrow  shot  through  a 
bunch  of  violets.  Who  had  thrown  it?  I  looked 
at  Enterre.  He  was  leaning  forward,  the  white 
rose  remained  in  his  lapel — the  pink  one  lay  un- 


20  THE    DANCB    OF    DEATH. 

heeded  at  the  feet  of  La  Joie.  He,  too,  had  seen 
the  arrow  and  the  violets. 

La  Joie  was  twice  recalled  to  dance  and  refused 
a  third  time  on  account  of  fatigue.  Then,  joined 
by  Enterre,  I  hurried  out  and  proceeded  to  the 
apartments  of  the  danseuse.  There  were  already 
many  there,  assembled  for  the  coming  gayety. 
Later  they  poured  in  until  the  rooms  were  crowded 
with  a  good  natured  throng  that  chatted  and 
laughed  and  moved  about.  At  last  a  commotion 
near  the  door  heralded  her  approach,  and  the  con- 
course of  men  shouted  "Vive  La  Joie"  until  the 
roof  rang.  Her  hands  were  full  of  rosebuds,  and 
her  bright,  beautiful  face  sparkled  with  pleasure. 
Willing  slaves  unclasped  the  long  cloak  she  wore, 
and  as  its  hood  fell  from  her  head,  we  noticed  the 
silver  arrow  and  the  bunch  of  violets  in  her  hair. 

"Oh!  An  arrow,  Mademoiselle!  Is  that  what 
it  was.     I  could  not  see,'^  said  Leblanc. 

"Yes, — it  is  an  arrow — a  silver  arrow,'^  she 
answered.  She  took  it  from  the  dark  meshes  with 
difficulty,  and  laughed.  "Friends,  this  is  a  warn- 
ing! Yes,  what  I  say,  I  mean.  It  is  a  warning. 
Once  before  I  received  one — a  dagger  that  time, 
with  a  silver  hilt,  and  upon  it  the  identical  motto 


THE    DANCE    OF  DEATH.  21 

that  this  bears.  See,  here  engraved — Trenez 
garde.'  It  was  the  dance  of  death,  to-night.  Per- 
chance this  arrow  points  to  my — " 

"Mademoiselle!''  cried  Enterre — "What  ails 
you?  Sad?  In  such  brilliant  company?  It  is  a 
warning,  surely,  but  a  warning  that  all  may  read. 
It  means  that  where  so  many  adore  you  there 
must  be  jealousy,  and  where  there  is  jealousy, 
anger  crops  out,  and  anger  produces  quarreling; 
quarreling  breeds  duels — and  sometimes  death 
ensues." 

He  was  leaning  over  the  back  of  her  chair — she 
turning  around  to  look  up  at  his  handsome,  boy- 
ish face.  Between  his  closed  teeth,  under  cover 
of  the  laugh  which  went  around,  he  spoke  some- 
thing quickly  and  softly,  so  that  only  she  could 
hear.  She  let  her  breath  come  out  sharply,  and 
turning  to  Pantreaux,  disdained  Enterre.  It  was 
a  strange  evening  all  through.  When  Mademoi- 
selle first  came  in  she  had  shaken  hands  with 
every  one.  After  that  I  did  not  approach  her.  I 
talked  with  artists  of  painting;  discussed  music 
with  composers;  literature  and  society  with  their 
respective  representatives.  Once,  as  I  lounged 
from  one  group  to  another,  a  maid  opened  the 


22  THE    DANCE    OF   DEATH. 

door  to  an  adjoining  apartment,  and  I  saw  into 
La  Joie's  bedroom.  It  was  the  daintiest  chamber 
imaginable,  and  was  furnished  in  white,  blue  and 
gold.  The  little  brass  bedstead  was  draped  in 
white;  over  the  low,  broad  dressing  table  was  a 
large  square  mirror  framed  in  white,  and  upon  a 
stand  near  by,  was  a  flower  vase  holding  a  quantity 
of  glowing  carmine  roses.  They  were  my  roses! 
My  heart  leaped  into  my  throat.  My  arteries 
tried  to  burst.  I  was  at  once  ice-cold  and  red-hot. 
My  companions  chaffed  me  on  my  sudden  acces- 
sion of  color.  I  shook  them  off  and  made 
towards  where  La  Joie  held  forth  in  vivacious  con- 
verse to  a  huddled  group  of  men. 

"Does  she  never  grow  tired  of  talking?"  I  asked 
of  Enterre,  standing  upon  the  edge. 

"Yes — she  wearies  of  it.  It  tires  her  to  enter- 
tain them,  but  she  knows  it  pleases — so  she  does 
it."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  though  to  say 
he  could  do  nothing,  and  moved  away.  "It  is  her 
duty  as  hostess  of  a  salon,"  he  said,  as  he  went. 
He  was  sarcastic,  and  apparently  in  a  bad  mood. 
Poor  Enterre!  Was  it  with  a  secret  feeling  of 
exultation  that  I  said  to  myself,  "He  has  had  his 
day!" 


THE   DANCE    OF    DEATH.  23 

There  was  no  regular  supper,  that  night.  Ices 
were  served,  and  champagne,  an  innovation ;  but 
they  implored  La  Joie  to  dance  her  little  conceit 
upon  the  table.  La  Joie  did  not  always  dance  for 
us.  On  the  nights  when  she  came  home  clad  in 
ordinary  evening  dress  we  had  no  dancing.  On 
such  occasions  I  thought  her  most  charming.  I 
grew  fastidious.  So  being  now  costumed  a  la 
ballet,  they  were  at  liberty  to  request  her  to  favor 
them,  and  she  consented.  The  table  was  accord- 
ingly drawn  to  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  willing 
hands  assisted  her  to  lightly  leap  upon  it.  The 
piano  music  began,  and  La  Joie  danced.  But  lo, 
as  she  tripped  about  upon  the  inadequate  space, 
the  silver  arrow  which  she  had  replaced,  dropped 
from  her  hair  to  the  table,  and  rebounded,  Enterre 
catching  it.  Mademoiselle  suddenly  ceased,  and 
all  pale,  held  out  her  hand  for  the  mysterious  trifle. 
Enterre,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes,  seized  the 
hand  and  kissed  it,  leaving  the  arrow  in  her  clasp. 
Cries  of  "Go  on — proceed — encore,''  resounded, 
but  Mademoiselle  refused.  She  sat  upon  the  edge 
of  the  table  apparently  much  disturbed — tears 
filled  her  eyes  and  brought  forth  exclamations 
and  protests. 


24  THE    DANCE    OF    DEATH. 

''I  am  afraid/^  she  said,  shaking  her  head.  "It 
is  the  dance  of  death,  you  know." 

And  all  their  laughter  could  not  move  her. 
Enterre  suddenly  left  the  assembly,  and  did  not 
return.  It  much  surprised  but  gladdened  me. 
Now  would  be  my  opportunity.  Now  I  should 
speak.  I  patiently  lingered  until  the  last  devoted 
man  had  gone. 

"La  Joie,''  I  began  softly. 

She  turned  a  bit  pale;  a  tremor,  of  nervousness, 
perhaps,  passed  over  her. 

"Henri,"  she  said,  quickly.  "Do  you  go,  too. 
Depart,  I  pray  you.  I  am  very  tired — I  require 
rest.     I  beg  of  you  go." 

"When,  then,  may  I  speak?"  I  asked. 

"If  I  live,"  she  said  slowly,  "and  am  here — to- 
morrow." 

"Morbid  one,"  I  said. 

"Go,  now,"  she  cried — "at  once." 

I  obeyed,  but  stopped  in  the  cafe  opposite,  to 
buy  a  cigar.  As  I  came  out  and  reached  the 
shadow,  I  noticed  a  man  going  in  La  Joie's  door- 
way. It  was  Enterre;  I  saw  him  plainly.  What 
did  it  mean?  A  biting  jealousy  possessed  me, 
and  I  waited  for  his  return  to  the  street.     He  was 


THE   DANCE    OF    DEATH.  25 

not  long  gone,  and  when  he  reappeared,  he  was 
wiping  off  his  waistcoat  with  a  handkerchief. 
Evidently  she  had  bestowed  more  violets,  and  he 
was  brushing  off  the  water  that  had  fallen  from 
their  stems. 

"Well,"  I  reasoned,  "she  gave  them  to  him  to  be 
quickly  rid  of  his  presence.  To-morrow  will  prove 
her." 

I  slept  but  little  that  night.  I  lay  awake  mus- 
ing of  the  morning,  wondering  how  we  should 
both  behave,  and  I  rose  comparatively  early  and 
went  to  my  florist.  He  was  rich  in  apologies,  for 
he  had  not  a  single  red  rose  in  the  house.  When 
one  is  in  love,  trifles  do  not  worry. 

"It  does  not  matter,"  I  said,  lightly.  "Give  me 
white  ones."  I  picked  out  a  great  bunch  of  the 
slender-budded,  transparent  Nephites. 

It  was  about  twelve  o'clock  as  I  reached  the 
domicile  of  Mademoiselle.  I  paused  on  the  step. 
A  thousand  conflicting  emotions  seized  me.  I 
thought  of  her  fears  and  forebodings  of  the  pre- 
vious night.  This  life  did  not  befit  her.  I  would 
make  her  my  wife;  together  we  would  go  far  away 
from  gay,  tiring  Paris,  and  begin  a  new  existence. 
Then   I   resolutely   demanded   admittance.     The 


26  THE   DANCE    OF    DEATH. 

door  was  opened  by  a  maid  whose  eyes  were  red 
from  recent  weeping. 

"Oh!  Monsieur,"  she  cried,  bursting  into  fresh 
tears,  "I  implore  you,  do  not  come  in!" 

"What  has  happened,  Marie?"  I  asked. 

"I — oh!  Really  I  have  not  the  heart  to  tell. 
Last  night  Mademoiselle  La  Joie  gave  me  per- 
mission to  spend  it  with  my  parents,  and  this 
morning  when  I  returned  to  assist  Mademoiselle 
with  her  dressing — I  find  her — oh!  Mon  Dieu — 
as  you  shall  see." 

She  hurriedly  ascended  the  stairs,  and  I 
bounded  up. 

"But  Monsieur,"  said  Marie,  "you  will  not  enter 
the  room?" 

"What  is  it,"  I  gasped.  "For  God's  sake,  tell 
me." 

"See  for  yourself,''  said  the  woman. 

We  were  at  the  door  of  the  dining  salon.  Marie 
opened  the  portal,  and — I  saw.  Upon  the  dark 
table  lay  a  still  figure.  It  was  La  Joie,  yet  clad 
in  her  dancing  costume  of  black;  her  fair,  bare 
arms  gleaming  white  against  the  sombre  color  of 
the  dress;  her  face  was  pale;  the  arrow  shone  in 
her  hair.     But  something  gave  color  to  one  fair 


THE   DANCE    OF   DEATH.  27 

hand  and  brightened  the  black  satin  bodice — 
something  red  like  my  usual  roses.  You  have 
guessed ;  it  was  blood  from  her  young  heart,  drawn 
forth  by  a  small  dagger  which  had  entered  the 
source  of  her  life  and  banished  its  spirit. 

"Do  not  touch  her,  Monsieur,"  cried  Marie. 
"The  authorities  must  see  the  body  as  it  is." 

Disregarding  this,  I  dragged  myself  forward 
and  gazed  at  the  quiet,  calm,  dead  face,  with  its 
closed  eyes,  and  then  at  the  horrid  wound  and  its 
silver-headed  cause.  The  dagger  I  examined,  re- 
membering her  words  of  the  night  before.  Upon 
the  hilt  was  engraved,  "Prenez  garde,"  and  below, 
in  small  letters,  "Enterre." 

"Mon  Dieu!"  I  screamed,  "Enterre!  Enterre." 

Like  a  fiend  with  rage,  I  tore  the  wrappings 
from  my  flowers.  I  kissed  her  white  forehead 
and  scattered  over  her  the  roses  not  less  white, 
some  of  which  fell  upon  the  cruel  wound.  I 
rushed  from  the  house.  I  burned  for  revenge — 
Enterre — Enterre  had  done  the  deed.  The 
authorities  had  been  informed  of  the  murder,  so  I 
went  straightway  to  Enterre's  dwelling  house.  I 
gave  his  valet  no  time  to  announce  me.    I  brushed 


28  THE   DANCE    OF    DEATH, 

past  him  into  the  master's  sleeping  chamber,  and 
there  found  him  I  sought. 

He  was  seated  facing  me,  with  wild,  sleepless 
eyes,  and  a  countenance  haggard  and  stricken. 

"You  have  heard?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  seen  your  cowardly  work.     Assassin  T' 

He  stared  at  me  in  an  emotionless  way,  and 
seemed  so  broken  and  resistless,  that,  contrary  to 
my  first  impetuous  intentions,  I  did  not  rush 
forward  and  grip  the  breath  from  his  throat. 

"Enterre,  in  God's  name — did  you  do  this 
thing?" 

"You  refer  to  La  Joie's  death,  I  presume,"  he 
slowly  said.  "Yes,  I  did  it — with  these  hands. 
See,  I  have  not  yet  washed  the  stain  from  my 
fingers." 

He  had  not  risen  from  his  chair,  but  turned  his 
hands  so  that  I  might  see  the  damning  evidence. 

"Enterre,"  I  said,  "you  have  gone  mad." 

"No,"  he  replied,  sadly.  "I  have  not  lost  my 
mind.  Would  to  heaven  I  had.  I  have  not  slept 
at  all  this  night  past,  Henri,  but  I  sat  up,  and 
wrote  to  you  a  short  history  of  my  life.  I  had  not 
thought  to  see  you  again,  old  friend." 

He   rose,   and   took   from  the  table   a   large 


THE   DANCE    OF    DEATH.  29 

envelope  which  he  handed  to  me,  and  which  bore 
my  name.  Then  he  walked  to  his  dressing  table. 
Before  I  knew  what  he  would  do,  he  had  raised  a 
pistol  from  the  table,  and  by  the  aid  of  the  mirror, 
had  fired  into  his  breast.  He  did  not  speak  again. 
Assistance  was  of  no  avail. 


As  you  may  imagine,  these  events  had  no  tri- 
fling effect  upon  me,  and  although  I  played  a  very 
prominent  part  in  the  testimony  for  the  investiga- 
tion, I  was  hardly  able  to  stand.  It  was  some 
time  before  I  had  sufficient  command  over  my 
nerves  to  read  the  packet  Julien  Enterre  had  given 
me.  When  at  length  I  felt  willing  to  see  the  poor 
fellow's  secret,  it  was  upon  the  ocean  steamer,  on 
my  way  to  America.  The  papers  contained  about 
what  I  shall  say. 

He  had  gone  to  the  United  States  several  years 
before,  and  in  New  Orleans  had  met  a  young 
girl  of  excellent  French  family — ^whom  I  after- 
wards knew  as  La  Joie.  He  fell  deeply  in  love 
with  her,  and  having  the  love  reciprocated,  but 
being  objected  to  by  the  young  lady's  people,  he 
had  persuaded  her  to  elope  with  him,  and  they 


30  THE    DANCE    OF    DEATH. 

were  married.  Fortune,  fickle  jade  that  she  is, 
had  left  them  almost  destitute  in  New  York. 
Enterre,  having  quarreled  with  his  father,  dared 
ask  no  money  from  France.  Having  been  unac- 
customed to  labor,  he  could  find  only  insuffi- 
ciently paying  employment.  To  support  them- 
selves they  both  must  work,  and  La  Joie  went 
upon  the  stage.  Three  years  of  it  had  made  her 
a  fine  ballet  dancer.  Then  Enterre's  father  died, 
leaving  Julien  independent — provided  he  married 
a  cousin.  They  came  back  to  France.  Julien 
accepted  the  money,  and  had  apparently  been 
reconciled  to  marrying  the  cousin.  But  he  made 
her  angry  by  his  indifference,  and  her  parents 
finding  a  richer  husband  for  the  beautiful  girl. 
Monsieur  Enterre  was  left  with  his  money  in 
peace.  La  Joie  had,  in  the  meantime,  been 
harassed  with  anxiety  about  Enterre.  She  had 
left  the  stage  and  was  living  in  the  apartments 
which  Enterre  occupied.  But  a  misunderstand- 
ing of  affairs,  a  fear  lest  he  would  repudiate  her, 
caused  her  to  seek  a  position  as  danseuse  in  Paris. 
She  had  never  again  relinquished  this,  although 
Julien  implored  her  to  do  so,  and  assured  her  that 
he  had  never  held  aught  but  honorable  intentions 


THE   DANCE    OF    DEATH.  31 

towards  her — his  true  wife.  The  engagement  with 
his  cousin  had  been  but  a  ruse  to  obtain  money. 
By  this  time,  however,  she  had  become  acquainted 
with  many  men,  and,  growing  capricious,  had 
made  Enterre  promise  that  for  a  time  at  least,  he 
would  not  divulge  their  marriage.  He  was  with 
her  constantly;  he  sent  the  wines;  he  gave  the 
violets;  he  always  remained  until  the  last  caller 
had  departed.  He  loved  and  guarded  her  always. 
She  had  promised  that  if  he  would  allow  her  to 
score  certain  triumphs,  she  would  cease  her  stage 
life,  and  be  all  to  him  that  a  wife  should  be.  The 
success  she  begged  was  obtained,  and  he  threw 
the  dagger  at  her  feet.  She  still  delayed.  A  sec- 
ond time  he  threw  the  arrow.  Then  she  told  him 
that  she  still  loved  him,  but  she  loved  fame  and 
the  stage  better.  If  he  accepted  her  as  his  wife,  it 
would  be  on  condition  that  she  might  continue 
her  stage  career.  I  will  give  you  Enterre's  re- 
maining words.  They  seem  burned  into  my 
brain. 

"I  looked  at  her,  so  fair,  so  young  and  so  cruel. 
I  foresaw  the  future  and  what  her  existence  would 
become.  I  viewed  my  own  desolation.  I  had 
spoken  in  vain.     I  went  to  the  cabinet  under  pre- 


32  THE    DANCE    OF   DEATH. 

tense  of  smelling  the  violets  placed  there — my 
violets  whose  emblem  was  'faithfulness.'  In 
reality,  I  took  from  it  the  dagger  which  I  had 
given  her;  and  returning  to  where  she  sat  upon 
the  table^ — swinging  her  feet  in  and  out,  looking 
too  perfect  to  die,  but  too  pure  to  become  corrupt, 
I  thrust  the  knife  into  her  heart.  She  only  lived 
to  breathe  my  miserable  name;  then  I  laid  her 
upon  the  table,  closed  her  eyes  and  kissed  them 
close — and  may  God  rest  her  sweet  soul.'' 


MISS    KEMBALL. 

"What  a  wretch  you  are,  Mr.  Anson!''  and  little 
Miss  Blake's  blue  eyes  were  full  of  reproach  as 
she  said  it.  "I  have  asked  you  a  question  three 
times." 

"I  beg  pardon,  Miss  Blake,  ask  it  again,"  he 
said,  bending  over  her  as  she  sat,  and  he  stood, 
in  a  crowded  ball  room. 

"I  asked  who  is  that  tall  girl  over  there  in  light . 
blue?" 

"She  is  a  Miss  Emai  Kemball,"  he  answered. 

"Do  you  know  her?  Ernai — what  an  odd 
name !" 

"I  have  never  been  presented,"  he  said  to  her 
question. 

"I  should  lose  no  time  in  getting  acquainted 
if  I  were  a  man,"  said  Miss  Blake.  "The  men 
seem  to  go  crazy  over  her." 

"They  do,"  Carl  assented. 

"You  are  very  indifferent,  do  you  know?"  she 
asked, 


36  MISS    KEMBALL. 

"So  I  have  been  told/' 

"Really,  though,  Mr.  Anson,  wouldn't  you  like 
to  meet  Miss  Kemball?" 

"I  should  be  delighted,  truly.  I  have  a  desire 
to  look  well  at  her  eyes.  They  say  she  has  most 
beautiful  eyes.  Why,  do  you  know,  Briggs  (I 
get  all  my  information  from  Briggs) — Briggs 
wrote  a  sonnet  to  her  eyes.  Oh !  yes,  I  should  be 
happy  to  meet  her." 

"Why  don't  you  say  it  as  though  you  meant  it? 
You  are  the  most  indifferent  man  I  ever  saw," 
she  laughed.  "Why  not  have  Mr.  Briggs  intro- 
duce you?" 

"Oh!  Dear  me.  Miss  Blake!  Poor  Briggs 
has  too  many  would-be-successful  rivals  already. 
No,  not  Briggs,  decidedly." 

"She  is  a  very  fortunate  girl,"  breathed  Miss 
Blake,  thinking  of  Ernai's  popularity. 

"In  not  having  to  meet  me?"  said  Carl,  smiling. 
"Thanks." 

"It  did  sound  that  way,  didn't  it?  But  you 
know  what  I  meant." 

"Yes." 

"Ah!  here  comes  Tom  Haddon.  We  must 
part.     I  trust  you  will  meet  the  fair  beauty."     And 


MISS    KEMBALL.  37 

nodding  and  smiling,  not  meaning  a  word  of  her 
wish,  she  ghded  away  upon  the  arm  of  her  partner. 
Carl  Anson  remained  standing  where  she  had 
left  him.  Celia  was  desperately  in  love  with  him 
— every  one  knew  that,  with  the  exception,  per- 
haps, of  himself.  But  most  of  the  girls  were 
smitten  with  him;  he  was  a  favorite  puzzle  and 
source  of  aggravation  to  them.  He  did  not 
dance;  would  not, — for  he  was  well  able  to  ^*trip 
the  light  fantastic  toe,'' — and  generally  stayed 
with  the  wall-flowers;  or  if  any  one  were  willing 
he  sat  out  the  dances  with  them.  They  were 
always  willing  to  have  his  name  on  their  cards, 
whether  he  danced  or  walked,  or  listened  in  a 
fascinatingly  unconscious  way  to  their  chatter. 
It  was  accepted  that  a  wager  was  the  cause  of  his 
abstinence,  for  a  year  back  he  had  danced  as 
willingly  as  the  next  man.  But  Carl  was  changed 
in  every  way,  his  friends  said.  At  the  club  he  was 
only  half  a  good  fellow,  where  he  had  formerly 
led  the  van.  Something  was  the  cause.  Money 
troubles  it  could  not  possibly  be,  as  he  was  of 
wealth  enough  to  be  considered  one  of  the  great 
catches.  They  did  not  for  a  moment  suspect  him 
of  being  in  love.     He  never  seemed  to  care  for 


38  MISS    KEMBALL. 

one  woman's  society  more  than  another's,  and 
love  was  out  of  the  fashion,  and  decidedly  not 
Anson's  style. 

He  stood  this  evening,  with  very  thoughtful 
eyes  looking  at  Emai  Kemball. 

"Poor  fools!"  he  mused,  at  sight  of  the  men 
gathered  about  her.  "What  will  it  ever  profit 
them  to  be  throwing  their  hearts  away  upon  her? 
She  will  play  them  all,  and  at  the  last  take  the 
one  with  most  money." 

Mr.  Anson  had  not  himself  been  so  treated, 
but  a  marriage  in  a  relative's  case  had  proved  to 
be  founded  upon  the  wealth  of  one,  and  the  beauty 
of  the  other,  and  consequently  had  not  had  the 
happiest  result  in  the  world. 

Carl's  ideas  of  marriage  and  love  were  unusual 
for  a  society  man.  He  often  wished  he  were  poor 
that  he  might  be  loved  for  himself — if  he  were 
worth  loving.  He  did  not  care  for  his  handsome 
face;  he  did  not  believe  his  deep  grey  eyes  were 
beautiful,  nor  his  mouth  simply  perfect.  He  per- 
suaded himself  that  a  conceited  man  was  a  fool, 
and  tried  to  live  up  to  his  idea.  But  argue  with 
himself  as  he  might,  he  was  the  handsomest  man 
on  the  floor  that  night,  just  as  in  his  eyes,  Ernai 


MISS    KEMBALL.  39 

Kemball  was  the  loveliest — nay,  the  one  beautiful 
woman. 

He  amused  Ernai  beyond  measure.  She  had 
known  him  by  sight  for  a  year,  and  was  aware 
that  he  had  known  her  face  before  that.  And  yet 
he  would  not  be  introduced.  She  hesitated  be- 
tween anger  and  amusement  for  awhile,  glided 
into  the  latter,  and  waited. 

He  had  crossed  a  street  once,  down  which  her 
cart  was  being  carried  at  a  break-neck  pace,  by 
a  horse  who  was  too  frightened  to  heed  her  hand 
or  voice.  He  had  run  in  front  of  the  animal, 
grasped  the  rein,  and  brought  it  to  a  quivering 
halt  It  was  not  a  runaway,  but  it  might  have 
been,  and  Ernai  had  poured  out  her  thanks  in  a 
way  that  she  seldom  allowed  herself;  and  she  had 
been  most  generous  with  a  grateful  glance  from 
her  no  longer  languid  eyes.  But  he  had  lifted 
his  hat,  and  passed  on  through  the  gaping  crowd 
which  always  gathers  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
around  an  excitement  upon  the  street.  He  had 
never  presumed  to  take  the  least  advantage, 
nor  had  he  requested  to  know  her.  But — she 
waited. 

She  was  upon  Briggs'  arm  when  Carl  was  gaz- 


40  MISS    KEMBALL. 

ing  at  her  so  intently,  and  when,  turning,  she 
looked  straight  into  his  eyes,  she  said  to  Briggs: 
"I  have  a  desire  to  meet  your  friend,  Mr.  Anson. 
I  think  he  will  never  ask  to  be  presented  to  me, 
but,  in  Pity's  name,  appear  to  introduce  us  by  ac- 
cident/' 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Briggs,  to  whom  her 
word  was  law.  "We  shall  pass  by;  I  shall  have 
something  very  important  to  say  to  him,  and 
shall  ask  you  if  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  stop 
with  me.  You  will  give  a  reluctant  consent;  we 
shall  stop,  you  be  introduced,  and  I  tell  him  my 
nonsense.  Then  you  may  absorb  him  in  conver- 
sation, ril  bet  you  can  draw  him  out,  Miss  Kem- 
ball.  He's  been  locked  up  in  himself  for  a  year 
or  more.  Conceited?  No!  No  one  less  so,  but 
er-er-taciturn,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  understand.  There  he  is." 
It  was  done.  The  innocent  Carl  felt  his  heart 
beat  up  into  his  throat  as  he  bowed.  He  heard 
Briggs'  voice ;  returned  an  answer  to  his  question, 
and  through  it  all,  could  retain  no  word  of  it. 
He  afterwards  learned  that  Briggs  had  made  an 
appointment  with  him,  and  was  full  of  wrath  be- 
cause Anson  did  not  keep  it.     But  Carl  remem- 


MISS    KEMBALL.  41 

bered  every  slightest  syllable  that  Ernai  spoke. 
He  remembered,  too,  a  vow  he  had  once  taken; 
that  he  would  never  joyfully  meet  another  woman 
until  he  had  met  Ernai  Kemball;  that  he  would 
never  dance  with  a  girl  until  he  danced  with  her. 

"Have  you  a  dance  for  me,  Miss  Kemball?"  he 
asked. 

For  answer  she  drew  her  pencil  through  the 
name  opposite  a  waltz,  and  gave  the  waltz  to  him. 
"It  is  very  wicked,"  she  said,  "but  I  will  do  it." 
And  she  made  the  disappointed  one  believe  he 
had  displeased  her  in  some  way  to  merit  its  being 
taken  from  him. 

And  there  was  no  longer  an  indifferent  look 
on  CarPs  face  as  he  waited  for  his  dance.  He 
went  to  her  with  a  glad  heart,  and  tried  to  be  as 
composed  as  he  had  been  when  he  leaned  against 
the  wall,  but  succeeded  only  in  obtaining  the  out- 
ward semblance  of  self-possession. 

She  was  very  beautiful,  indeed,  he  thought,  and 
her  waltzing  finished  him.  He  had  at  last  looked 
into  her  eyes — deep,  lustrous,  brown  ones,  nearly 
on  a  level  with  his  own;  and  he  was  six  feet  in 
his  stockings.  Let  me  tell  you,  though,  that 
looking  he  had  lost  his  heart.     Her  hair  was  a 


42  MISS    KEMBALL. 

bright  brown  with  glints  of  gold  in  the  high- 
lights, and  her  black  lashes  curled  upwards  with 
a  sweep  which  enhanced  the  glances  she  could 
give.  Her  mouth  was  tender,  loving,  and  very 
kissable;  the  chin  firmly,  delicately  moulded. 

She  had  small  white  hands  with  round,  tapering, 
pink-tipped  fingers,  at  this  time  covered  by  the 
jealous  gloves;  dainty  feet  that  hardly  seemed  in 
keeping  with  her  tall,  graceful  body;  and  as 
though  Fortune  had  not  cared  to  stint  meet  cov- 
erings for  such  a  glorious  figure,  Ernai  had  all  the 
money,  and  therefore  all  of  the  clothes  she  de- 
sired. 

It  was  easy  to  fall  in  love  with  Ernai  Kemball, 
but  she  was  so  coolly,  lazily  indifferent,  that  to 
make  love  was  quite  as  difficult  as  to  fall  in  love 
was  easy;  and  such  a  thing  as  winning  her  heart 
seemed  out  of  the  question. 

She  was  not  a  flirt  in  the  ordinary  acceptation 
of  the  term,  but  she  appeared  to  have  no  desire 
for  earnest  devotion.  She  gave  one  no  chance 
to  put  in  a  tender  little  speech,  and  if  one  made 
it  in  spite  of  her,  she  looked  at  him  in  an  amused 
sort  of  way,  that  fairly  drove  a  sensitive  man  to 
despair. 


MISS    KEMBALL.  43 

But  without  exertion  or  endeavor  she  was  the 
most  popular  girl  one  could  name.  The  laziest 
men  in  society,  whom  other  women  vainly 
fussed  over  to  draw  out,  threw  aside  their  habitual 
willingness  to  lie  back  and  be  amused,  and  made 
strenuous  efforts  to  entertain  her;  and  now  Anson, 
who  was  considered  utterly  callous  and  indiffer- 
ent, awoke  to  the  fact  that  his  heart  was  not  the 
passive  organ  he  had  imagined  it.  But  he  vowed 
she  should  not  know  it,  nor  should  she  have  it 
entirely,  until  he  thought  she  loved  him.  Poor 
girl,  she  had  the  name  of  being  a  flirt,  and  he 
had  often  heard  of  her  victims.  Anson  opined 
Briggs  to  be  of  the  latter,  and  with  him  as  an 
example,  was  cautious. 

He  danced  with  her  once  again,  and  before 
the  beauty  left,  had  obtained  permission  to  call. 
Indifferent  until  now,  henceforth  he  would  be 
second  to  none  in  pursuit  of  his  happiness. 

Briggs  took  him  first,  it  happened.  She  wore 
a  light,  soft  silk,  that  had  a  shimmer,  and  the 
faintest  possible  perfume  about  it,  and  she  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  fascinating  Briggs  by  her  at- 
tention as  he  told  some  stories  that  were  not 
perfectly  true. 


44  MI8S    KEMBALL. 

She  rarely  looked  at  Anson — to  his  disgust. 
It  was  one  of  her  ways  of  flirting,  of  course,  he 
argued,  and  he  would  not  fall  in  love  with  her — 
when  he  was  too  far  fallen  to  obtain  rescue. 
Once,  after  one  of  Briggs'  efforts,  she,  giving  a 
low  laugh  as  tribute  to  the  story,  fluttered  one 
glance  into  CarPs  eyes  that  made  his  heart  go 
double  its  ordinary  speed. 

After  that  it  was  an  easy  down-hill  road.  He 
came  often  at  her  invitation  or  without  it  and 
wore  his  heart  out  looking  at  her  and  hearing  her 
low,  perfectly  distinct  voice.  But  she  was  cold 
as  ice,  calm,  queenly,  with  never  so  much  as  a 
look  to  encourage  him,  till  he  was  bound  to  ac- 
knowledge that  she  was  no  mere  coquette.  Be- 
ing hard  to  win,  men  loved  her  and  for  herself, 
and  he  grew  jealous  of  her  power.  Was  there 
nothing  in  him  to  love?  Did  he  have  nothing 
but  his  money  to  make  him  eligible?  He  hated 
it,  but  was  glad  that,  having  it,  he  was  enabled  to 
be  with  her.  If  she  loved  now — if  she  could  love 
him,  it  would  not  be  for  money,  surely — surely. 

The  slow  changes  of  a  year  found  him  more  her 
slave  than  ever.  It  was  the  talk  of  the  clubs 
and  afternoon  teas  that  he  had  followed  her  dur- 


MISS    KEMBALL.  45 

ing  the  summer  and  was  desperately  in  love, 
while  she  was  only  amusing  herself;  that  she  had 
rejected  him  three  times,  and  yet  he  would  not 
accept  his  conge. 

Now  almost  all  of  their  set  had  gone  to  the 
same  place  during  the  hot  season,  and  many  other 
men  had  flocked  around  Miss  Kemball  without 
exciting  comment.  Miss  Kemball,  herself,  never 
spoke  of  Carl,  but  Ernai  seldom  talked  of  any 
of  her  admirers.  The  truth  was  Anson  felt  her 
to  be  incapable  of  loving,  and  patiently  served  her 
and  bided  his  time.  He  never  spoke  of  love — 
indeed,  never  looked  it,  and  as  for  proposing 
marriage  to  her,  that  was  still  out  of  the  question. 
They  talked  of  everything  under  the  sun,  and  any- 
thing beyond,  but  love  was  unmentioned.  The 
sneaking  little  God  sat  between  them,  neverthe- 
less. 

Briggs,  growing  desperate  and  dauntless,  laid 
his  heart  and  fortune  at  her  feet,  metaphorically 
speaking,  and  was  firmly,  but  gently,  refused. 
Carl  dared  not.  With  him  it  was  happiness  to 
be  allowed  to  see  her  often;  he  could  not  covet 
the  possession  of  her  love.  It  was  a  bitter  con- 
tentment. 


46  MISS    KBMBALL. 

About  this  time  it  went  the  rounds  that  Anson 
was  losing  money.  He  borrowed  a  great  deal 
without  immediately  repaying.  People  whis- 
pered that  he  was  playing  too  high.  He  sold  his 
yacht  later  on,  and  the  excitement  culminated  in 
a  climax  when  his  father  declared  himself  respon- 
sible for  none  of  CarPs  debts  or  blunders.  Carl 
left  the  paternal  mansion,  and  took  elegant  rooms 
whose  rent  was  not  always  paid  up  to  time.  His 
clothes  were  as  tasteful  as  ever,  with  the  tailor 
continually  dunning  him.  He  grew  pale  and 
rather  thinner  than  his  slender  height  approved 
of,  but  his  beautiful  eyes  remained  still  beautiful. 
Briggs  argued — pleaded  to  no  effect  but  a  storm 
of  words.  He  had  never  before  seen  Anson  lose 
his  temper,  and  they  had  gone  all  through  college 
together.  Carl,  himself,  was  wretched  to  the  last 
degree,  and  most  unsociable.  He  had  not  seen 
Ernai  for  three  weeks  after  leaving  his  father's 
house,  when,  one  day  she  passed  him  on  the  street, 
and  telling  the  coachman  to  stop,  beckoned  Carl 
to  her  carriage. 

"Get  in  with  me."  She  half  asked  it,  half  com- 
manded. 


MISS    KEMBALL.  47 

"Thank  you,  no.  My  destination  is  but  three 
blocks  away."~ 

'T  will  carry  you  to  it,  then,"  she  said  firmly. 

"I  will  not  go  with  you."  He  looked  at  the 
color  making  her  face  pink,  and  into  the  sur- 
prised brown  eyes — those  lovely  eyes  that  had 
first  taken  his  admiration. 

"You  must  drive  two  squares  with  me,  never- 
theless." She  opened  the  door.  "Get  in,"  she 
said,  and  he  obeyed. 

"I  have  heard  of  your  distress,"  she  began, 
quickly,  "for  a  long  time.  I  sympathize  with  you, 
and  I  wish  to  see  you.  Did  you  think  I  should 
deny  you  my  further  friendliness  because  you  had 
lost  your  fortune?  You  know  I  do  not.  I  am 
your  true  friend  in  spite  of  it.  Even  despite  the 
fact  that  I  heard  you  had  played  it  away.  That  is 
nonsense.     You  did  not  do  that,  did  you?' 

What  hope  there  was  in  the  beautiful  eyes. 
He  looked  at  them  for  long  before  he  answered — 
till  the  pink  in  her  checks  grew  bright. 

"Answer  me!"  she  cried,  softly. 

"Every  cent  I  have  lost,  has  been  lost  hon- 
estly." 

"Do  you  mean  by  that,  you  have  not  lost  this 
money  by — gambling?" 


48  MISS    KEMBALL. 

"I  do,"  he  said — almost  sadly,  she  thought. 

'1  will  trust  you,"  she  said. 

He  bent  over  her  gloved  hand,  and  would  have 
kissed  it,  but  she  snatched  it  from  him,  just  as  his 
reverent  lips  were  thinking  to  touch  it.  Her  eyes 
glowed — with  anger? 

"Ah!  Don't  be  silly,"  she  said.  But  her  voice 
was  not  angry.  "I  will  be  at  home  to-morrow 
evening.     Can  you  call?" 

"I  will,"  he  said  with  gentle  but  meaning  em- 
phasis. 

"I  shall — I  will  see  no  one  but  you.  Here  is 
your  place."     And  she  dismissed  him. 

And  he?  Alas,  poor  fellow,  he  did  not  know 
what  to  think;  whether  she  meant  to  encourage 
him,  or  whether  her  heart  (which  he  knew  to  be 
tender),  sympathized  with  him,  as  he  was  in 
trouble.  Notwithstanding  his  perplexity,  he  was 
very,  very  happy,  and  resolving  to  let  Fate  carry 
him,  he  gave  himself  up  to  thoughts  of  her  re- 
membered face  as  she  looked  in  the  carriage — at 
one  time  really  more  beautiful  than  he  had  ever 
seen  it  before. 

The  next  night  he  went  to  her,  cast  down  to  the 
depths  of  woe.     He  resolved  to  tell  her  that  h<" 


MISS    KEMBALL.  49 

loved  her — and  then  Fate  should  decide  the  rest. 

He  passed  into  the  drawing  room,  and  from  that 
to  the  music  room,  from  whence  came  the  sound 
of  the  piano. 

He  found  her  alone,  a  faint  flush  on  her  checks, 
a  starry  light  in  the  eyes  that  mocked  him. 

She  was  playing  softly,  and  only  noticed  his 
entrance  with  a  half  smile  and  a  bow.  How 
changeable  she  was!  At  one  time  so  cordial,  at 
another  so  cold!  To-night  her  mood  was  either 
— or  neither.  His  heart  trembled  at  the  sight  and 
sound ;  never  after  can  he  hear  the  strain  of  music 
that  she  played  but  it  takes  him  back  to  that 
moment.  He  can  see  the  dainty  room,  lit  only 
by  the  huge,  rose-colored  piano-lamp;  her  head 
half  in  light,  half  shadow,  inclined  a  trifle  toward 
the  instrument,  her  lips  slightly  apart,  a  smile  in 
the  shadowy  eyes  as  she  played  the  soft  melody. 

He  felt  his  fate  coming;  he  could  not  resist, 
though  he  was  not  sure  that  it  would  be  a  kind 
one.  He  bent  down  and  toward  her,  and  looked 
into  her  face. 

"Look  at  me,"  he  whispered. 

"No,"  she  whispered  back,  while  a  deeper 
shade  flushed  her  check. 

"Don't  you  know  I  love  you?"  he  breathed, 

4 


60  MISS    KEMBALL. 

taking  one  hand  off  the  keys.     She  still  played 
on  with  the  other. 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  she  smiled. 

"How  do  you  know  it?'' 

"I  see  it  in  your  eyes.'' 

"Let  me  see  it  in  yours.  Love,"  he  pleaded, 
bending  closer. 

For  an  instant  she  paused — then  raised  her  lids 
and  looked  into  his  eyes,  passionate  and  deep  love 
in  the  wonderful,  clear-brown  glance,  till,  drunk 
with  its  richness  he  sank  on  his  knees,  clasped  her 
close,  and  drew  her  lips  to  his  in  one  long,  be- 
trothal kiss. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Anson's  trick?"  asked 
Briggs  of  Trent,  a  week  after.  "Pretty  clever, 
eh?  You  see  he'd  got  some  idea  that  he  did  not 
want  to  be  married  for  his  money,  and  he  played 
the  beggar  to  see  if  Miss  Kemball  were  worthy. 
Gad!  He  might  have  saved  himself  the  trouble 
and  kept  his  yacht, — ^though  he  will  have  a  new 
one  for  the  wedding  tour — she  was  his  for  the 
asking.  Why,  man,  when  he  told  her  he'd  been 
living  a  lie,  she  laughed  in  perfect  delight  at  the 
notion!  Well" —  with  a  tremendous  sigh — "He's 
a  good  fellow — a  fine  fellow,  and  she — ^well,  every 
one  knows  what  I  think  of  Miss  Kemball." 


V  f 


^ 


AFTER  THE  STORM. 

Monday  evening  the  sun  went  down  into  a 
golden  nest  smiling  at  the  pearl  shell  of  a  sky; 
at  the  placid  ocean  with  ribbons  of  green  against 
the  horizon.  Tuesday  morning  when  Brother 
Felix  awoke  he  found  that  the  sun  had  not  re- 
turned. The  brown  sea  curled  white  lips  up  at  a 
grey,  wild  sky.  Out  in  the  harbor  the  oyster 
smacks  were  beginning  to  rock  sailless  masts  to 
and  fro.  Brother  Felix  thought  we  should 
have  rain ;  but  the  coast  had  been  dry  for  several 
weeks  and  the  rain  would  lay  the  fine,  white  dust 
that  blew  from  the  shell  road. 

By  four  o'clock  the  wind  was  a  gale.  Brother 
Felix  took  his  book  and  walked  into  the  convent 
garden.  With  one  white  hand  behind  him  he 
paced  up  and  down  the  alley  before  the  Academy. 
The  walk  was  of  white  powdered  shells,  beaten 
hard,  and  not  very  wide.  On  either  side  of  it  was 
a  low  green  hedge  of  box,  out  of  which  grew  a 
line  of  cedar  trees.     The  Brother  had  labored  in 


54  AFTER    THE    STORM. 

the  school-room  all  day  and  the  crisp  wind  was  a 
grateful  medicine  to  his  lungs.  But  the  sky  being 
like  a  closed  blind,  the  shade  of  the  cedar  alley 
was  too  dense  for  comfortable  reading. 

Opening  the  gate,  he  crossed  the  narrow  street 
of  the  Creole  town  and  passed  inside  the  tiny 
park  which  lay  between  the  road  and  the  sea. 
The  gale  blew  his  cassock  about  him,  and  the 
salt  air  struck  damp  on  his  face  as  he  walked  out 
on  the  frail,  narrow  pier  which  trembled  in  the 
clutch  of  the  sea.  Brother  Felix  loved  best  to 
see  his  friend,  the  ocean,  thus.  Grey,  grey  as  his 
future  life,  the  sky;  brown,  brown  the  waves  like 
the  earth  which  must  some  day  accommodate  his 
plain  coffin.  The  wind,  too,  made  such  glorious 
sighs, — such  a  long,  continuous  moan, — that  it 
saved  him  the  trouble  of  those  silent  complaints. 
And  yet.  Brother  Felix  had  seen  but  thirty  years 
of  life.  His  muscular  frame  would  perhaps  sweat 
in  the  heat  and  chill  in  the  cold  of  many  changing 
seasons  to  come.  He  struck  one  hand  into  the 
other  and  faced  about  when  he  reached  the  end. 

The  little  town, — dear  haven  of  his  life, — lay 
before  him,  the  greater  part  of  it  in  plain  sight, 
stretched    like   a    chain    around    the    wide    bay. 


AFTER    THE    STORM.  55 

Green  magnolia  trees,  spreading  live  oaks  and 
sweet  gums  with  mournful  grey  moss  trailing  like 
tears  from  their  benign  branches;  blooming 
oleanders  nodding  above  white  fences  like  blushes 
threatening  the  face  of  a  maiden;  the  tops  of 
verdant  pine  trees,  ambitious  to  kiss  Heaven's 
zenith; — he  saw,  all  tossed  by  the  blowing. 
There  lay  the  pink  college  with  its  rows  of  arched 
white  galleries  and  dormer  windows  in  the  roof. 
The  cottages  gleaming  like  white  flowers  amidst 
the  verdure;  in  front  of  each  a  little  park  with  its 
summer  house,  a  pier  and  a  bathing  shed;  the 
many  colored  boats,  the  quaint,  low  shops ;  people 
and  horses  passing  to  and  fro;  the  gulls  flying — 
he  observed  each  detail,  losing  not  the  slightest 
bit  of  color  or  movement. 

And,  was  it  not  strange?  What  he  thought 
was:  how  he  wished  that  Renee  could  see  the 
picture! 

The  wind,  for  a  moment,  was  silenced  by  the 
cry  of  anguish  that  broke  from  his  Hps.  It  had 
been  so  long — Oh  God,  so  long  since  he  had 
thought  of  her!  Why  had  the  old  habit  thrust 
itself  back  upon  his  heart!  He  could  see  her 
again, — as  plainly  as  though  she  came  tripping 


56  AFTER    THE   STORM. 

down  the  pier  toward  him, — in  a  white  dress,  yes, 
in  a  white  dress,  and  a  great  hat  with  auburn 
hair  against  it;  and  under  it  gleamed  the  most 
beautiful  red-brown  eyes  that  ever  harbored 
devil's  lights  to  entangle  the  blindness  of  man's 
love.  He  had  adored  her  eyes  and  her  hair,  her 
milk-white  skin,  and  the  tiny  freckles  that  lay  like 
the  pricks  of  a  golden  pin  on  her  apple-blossom 
colored  cheek.  But  best  of  all  he  had  loved  her 
own  self. 

Her  plump  prettiness  was  as  nothing  com- 
pared to  the  witchery  of  her  changing  moods. 
Her  laughter,  her  smiles  were  entrancing;  her 
saucy  words,  her  teasing  wit  made  him  desper- 
ately wild  with  warmth  of  love ;  but  her  other  self 
— that  soulful  girl  with  inquiring  mind  and  grand, 
noble  thoughts — ^was  a  being  whom  he  wor- 
shipped with  respect  as  one  venerates  a  saint. 

Brother  Felix  crossed  himself,  nevertheless, 
as  if  she  had  been  the  Devil's  own  dam.  Al- 
though it  was  long  since  he  had  gazed  into  those 
expressive  eyes  he  could  not  shake  off  the  fas- 
cination of  their  remembered  beauty.  If  he 
prayed  into  the  sky  for  assistance,  out  of  the  grey 
cloud  they  beamed  at  him  full  of  pity ;  if  he  bowed 


AFTER    the"  storm.  57 

his  head  to  efface  the  vision,  they  laughed  up  at 
him  in  brown  mockery.  When  he  looked  straight 
before  him  he  saw  the  hopeless  gaze  they  had 
worn  when  last — when  last  he  really  saw  them. 

He  sat  him  down  upon  the  pier  and  gave 
himself  up  to  the  memory  of  it  all. 

One  day  when  just  of  age,  he  had  walked  up 
St.  Charles  Avenue  in  an  idle  hour.  As  he  passed 
a  beautiful  garden  he  glanced  in  and  saw,  stand- 
ing under  a  huge  palm  tree,  a  lovely  young  girl. 
She  was  arranging  some  flowers  she  had  just 
gathered  and  quite  intent  upon  her  task.  She 
had  her  back  to  the  street,  and  as  the  young  man 
possessed  a  gentlemanly  tread  he  made  no  noise. 
However,  he  looked  steadily  at  the  back  of  her 
pretty  head,  and  suddenly  she  faced  about  as 
though  some  one  had  called  her  name. 

For  one  instant  they  had  stood  gazing  into 
each  other's  eyes,  and  then  she  made  her  way 
across  the  grass,  into  the  house,  without  so  much 
as  giving  him  another  glance. 

And  he — ^what  of  him?  Like  one  awakened 
from  a  dream  and  not  quite  sure  of  earth's  reality, 
he  kept  repeating  to  himself:  "It  is  she  whom  I 
would  like  to  marry!" 


68  AFTKR    THE    STORM. 

He  was  proud  of  the  fact  that  he  had  com- 
pelled her  to  turn  and  look  at  him,  and  as  he  was 
on  his  way  to  dine  with  a  friend  he  quickened 
pace  and  hummed  a  college  tune. 

Having  just  been  graduated  he  felt  that  the 
world  lay  before  his  feet.  He  could  make  or 
mar  his  life,  and  he  hoped  to  mold  it  not  only  a 
brilliant  but  a  happy  one. 

The  family  of  his  young  host  received  him 
cordially,  and,  after  a  gay  repast,  the  two  young 
men  agreed  to  make  some  calls.  His  friend, 
Eugene  led  the  way,  and — before  he  realized  what 
had  occurred — he  found  himself  in  the  house  of 
the  beautiful  garden  face  to  face  with  her  whom 
he  believed  his  fate. 

She  was  a  vision  of  loveliness  in  her  white 
dress,  and  her  eyes  looked  into  his  with  the  half 
frightened  gaze  of  a  fawn  as  she  saw  his  face. 
Laughingly  she  told  him  she  remembered  having 
seen  him  that  afternoon,  and,  like  a  stage  lover, 
he  could  have  thro\\Ti  himself  at  her  feet  at  once. 

They  remained  out  upon  the  wide  gallery  to  be 
cool,  and  the  young  men  made  but  one  call  that 
evening.  The  inevitable  Mamma  was  present,  but 
Eugene  had  tlie  pleasure  of  conversing  with  her. 


AFTER    THE    STORM.  69 

Through  the  quiet  air  the  plaintive  maternal 
conversation  wandered  to  Renee  and  her  new 
found  friend,  and  to  him  even  the  mother's  voice 
was  disagreeable.  The  mother  herself  he  dis- 
liked upon  sight. 

Two  days  later  he  was  again  loitering  up  St. 
Charles  Avenue.  It  had  perhaps  been  his  inten- 
tion to  go  to  see  Eugene.  But  in  a  certain  garden 
a  charming  little  maid  sat  reading  a  book,  and 
she  gave  him  a  friendly  nod  accompanied  by  a 
smile.  He  had  gone  inside  and  spent  an  hour 
without  heeding  that  it  was  dinner  time.  When 
her  dinner  was  announced  he  excused  himself 
and  hastened  home. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks,  having  seen  her 
constantly,  he  began  to  feel  nervous  if  a  day  passed 
when  he  could  not  speak  to  her.  At  the  expira- 
tion of  that  time  something  occurred  which 
opened  his  eyes  to  a  close  communication  of  their 
spirits.  He  had  found  a  position,  and,  leaning 
over  his  desk,  her  face  intervened  between  his 
eyes  and  the  ledger.  He  wished  he  could  see  her; 
he  wished  she  would  be  down  town  at  the  noon 
hour!  He  had  thought  it  so  persistently  that 
when  he  seized  his  hat  at  mid-day,  he  was  sure  she 


60  AFTER    THE    STORM. 

would  be  upon  Canal  Street.  He  had  but  turned 
the  corner  when  they  met. 

"Oh !"  she  laughed,  "The  funniest  thing !  I  was 
sitting  at  home  mending  a  rent  in  a  gown.  We 
have  no  telephone  in  the  house,  and  yet,  as  plain 
as  day,  I  received  a  message  without  a  messenger. 
It  said:  'Some  one  wants  to  see  you  down  on 
Canal  Street.'  I  tried  to  resist  it.  I  have  nothing 
to  buy, — ^but  here  I  am.  Who  can  it  be  do  you 
suppose  that  would  like  so  much  to  see  me?" 

"Renee,"  he  quietly  said,  "It  was  I,  wishing  for 
a  sight  of  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  I  have  found 
you  and  discovered  another  thing.  Some  day  I 
shall  tell  you  what." 

He  was  sure  now  that  she  loved  him.  But 
she  was  such  a  natural  coquette  that  for  more 
than  a  week  he  could  not  speak  of  it.  He  saw 
her  often, — ^they  hardly  needed  to  express  a  meet- 
ing place.  The  communion  between  their  souls 
was  a  strong  telepathy.  He  could  almost  feel  her 
moods  when  they  were  apart;  if  they  were  to- 
gether there  was  no  barrier  to  the  understanding 
between  them,  so  perfect  was  their  love. 

When  he  told  her  at  last,  they  were  in  the  gar- 
den, in  the  lateral  shade  of  a  palm  which  rose  like 


AFTER    THE    STORM.  61 

a  huge  mound  of  feathery  banners  in  the  middle 
of  the  yard  and  formed  a  screen  toward  the  house. 
Why  should  they,  these  two,  grow  serious  over 
a  bit  of  a  poem?  Why  should  it  cause  them  to 
think  of  life  with  its  successes  and  failures;  its 
ambitions  and  heartaches?  What  sudden  sorrow 
seared  their  hearts?  Forebodings  of  evil?  She 
ceased  for  the  moment  to  be  coquette.  She 
turned  her  lovely  eyes  toward  him  while  she  spoke 
earnestly  of  existence  being  a  holy  thing,  not  to 
be  trifled  with.  One  must  make  the  most  of 
it.  One  must  not  throw  one's  self  into  idleness 
and  disuse,  even  with  money.  She  smiled  di- 
vinely when  she  told  him  she  was  glad  he  had 
gone  to  work.  Satan  could  not  then  find  mischief 
for  his  hands,  and  he  would  grow  on  into  good 
and  noble  life. 

"Yes,''  he  said,  "under  certain  conditions  I 
can.  Deprived  of  those  circumstances,  God 
alone  knows  what  will  become  of  me.  My  life 
will  only  be  perfection  with  you  as  its  dear  guide. 
Denied  that  I  shall  not  care  for  its  result.  It  may 
drift  as  it  will.  Renee,  I  love  you,  I  love  you! 
Give  yourself  to  me  and  lead  me  into  better  paths 
than  I  can  find  alone!" 


62  AFTBR    THE    STORM. 

She  sat  looking  at  him  with  hands  clasped  on 
her  knees. 

"Ah,"  she  softly  said,  "You  have  long  ago 
taken  from  me  any  power  to  dictate.  From  the 
moment  I  first  turned  and  looked  into  your  eyes, 
I  felt  that  I  belonged  to  you." 

It  was  very  trying,  it  was  cruel,  there  in  the 
sight  of  chance  passers  by  he  could  not  clasp  her 
in  his  eager  arms.  Such  emotion,  too,  comes  but 
once.  He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and  felt  the 
sweetness  of  her  words  and  her  look  pass  over 
him  like  a  wave  of  perfume. 

That  was  the  happiest  moment  of  his  life. 

"Renee,"  he  spoke  at  last,  "May  I  go  to  your 
father  about  it  very  soon?" 

"No,"  she  said  quickly,  "It  is  such  fun  to  have 
our  little  secret  to  ourselves  for  a  while.  Let  us 
tell  no  one  just  yet." 

It  was  the  most  delightful  summer.  If  he  had 
loved  her  from  the  first,  it  had  been  but  a  vague 
romance.  Now,  when  he  knew  that  she  was  all 
his  very  own  he  worshipped  her  with  a  mad 
fervor  only  tempered  by  the  influence  which 
her  exceedingly  pure  spirit  held  over  them  both. 
In  the  moonlight  of  the  garden,  at  times,  she 


AFTER    THE    STORM.  63 

seemed  to  him  some  fair,  white-souled  saint  from 
a  higher  world.  And  then  she  loved  him  so,  she 
loved  him  so, — she  made  such  an  adorable  sweet- 
heart. 

The  autumn  came  and  Renee  said  he  might 
speak  to  her  father.  That  in  itself  was  not  so 
difficult  for  they  were  on  good  terms.  The  older 
man  had  always  been  kind  and  genial,  and  made 
his  daughter's  friend  feel  welcome  in  her  home. 
So  it  was  without  a  misgiving  that  the  young  man 
went  to  him  and  spake  reverently  of  their  mutual 
love.     It  was  received  by  a  narrow  mind. 

"My  friend,''  said  Renee's  father  sadly,  "it  gives 
me  the  greatest  pain  to  hear  this.  As  far  as  you 
personally  are  concerned,  I  admire  and  trust. 
You,  however,  worship  God  in  the  Romanist 
faith  and  are  more  or  less  under  the  control  of 
the  Church.  I  would  rather  see  my  child  lie 
dead  than  married  to  a  Catholic!  Sooner  or 
later  you  would  endeavor  to  convert  her.  Your 
children  would  be  baptized  in  your  faith  and  not 
in  hers.  I  am  an  elder  in  the  Presbyterian 
Church.  My  ancestors  were  Huguenots;  my 
child  has  been  strictly  reared  within  the  tenets  of 
our  church." 


64  AFTER  THE   STORM. 

"Her  mother  has  been  suspecting  something  of 
this  sort,  but  I  refused  to  send  Renee  away.     I 
am  sorry  now  that  I  did  not  take  my  wife's  advice. 
I  refuse  my  consent  to  such  a  union  and  I  am  sure 
her  mother  will  also.'' 

Arguments,  protestations,  promises  were  of  no 
avail.  He  went  out  of  the  office  feeling  stunned 
and  crushed.  Meeting  Renee  by  previous  ap- 
pointment, they  went  to  the  little  church  of  St. 
Roch's,  where  they  prayed  and  wept  together. 
They  swore  never  to  marry  unless  they  could 
marry  each  other. 

That  was  the  last  time  he  saw  her  alone.  The 
mother  was  more  incensed  than  the  father,  and 
Renee  was  kept  under  strict  surveillance. 

A  suddenly  planned  voyage  to  Europe  was 
carried  out  and  Renee  was  taken  abroad. 

At  the  expiration  of  two  years,  morose,  em- 
bittered, her  lover  entered  the  Brotherhood. 
Renee  had  not  returned  and  Brother  Felix  had 
never  heard  of  her  since  he  left  New  Orleans. 

Resolutely,  day  by  day,  he  had  put  her  out  of 
his  thoughts  until  now  as,  she  persisted  in  standing 
before  his  memory,  he  felt  that  something  un- 
usual   had    happened.     Something    beyond    his 


AFTER    THE    STORM.  6  5 

power  to  control  caused  him  to  dream  thus  of 
her.  Where  was  she?  Was  she  ahve?  Did  she 
still  think  of  him?  Had  she  become  the  wife  of 
another,  or  was  she  still  faithful  as  she  promised 
to  be?  Sad  and  sick  at  heart,  with  bowed  head, 
he  arose  and  walked  back  above  the  heaving 
water. 

The  wind  was  growing  cold  to  him,  and,  having 
reached  the  shore  end  of  the  pier,  he  crossed 
once  more  the  grass-plot  with  its  stiff  row  of 
palms,  over  the  shell  road  and  into  the  Academy 
yard,  just  as  the  church  clock  chimed  five. 

The  pretty  church  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Gulf 
lay  between  two  convents.  One  was  a  school 
for  girls  kept  by  gentle  Sisters;  the  other  was  the 
Academy  for  boys,  in  which  Brother  Felix 
taught.  The  Sisters  wore  bonnets  and  shoulder 
capes  of  white,  spotless  linen  and  gowns  of  black 
serge.  The  Brother's  costume  was  all  of  black; 
a  cassock,  a  girdle,  and  at  the  back  a  heavy  pleat 
which  swayed  loose  in  the  wind.  Gentle  lives 
they  led  in  that  little  town,  adored  by  their  young 
charges,  beloved  by  the  creole  fisher-folk  and 
citizens.  For  they  did  much  good  to  the  poor 
and   God  rewarded  them  by   giving  them  the 


66  AFTER    THE    STORM. 

bountiful  love  of  the  people.  One  could  see 
in  what  respect  they  were  held  as  they  passed 
through  the  street.  If  a  Sister  went  out  she  was 
accompanied  by  another  Sister,  or  a  little  girl. 
The  women  stopped  her  and  chattered  in  French, 
perhaps  about  the  progress  of  the  children;  the 
negroes  greeted  her  with  humble  reverence  in 
their  patois;  the  little  girls  clustered  around 
in  more  familiar  admiration.  The  Brothers 
went  about  independently,  and,  perchance,  be- 
cause they  were  men,  in  spite  of  being  Brothers, 
there  was  not  the  meekness  of  bearing  in  their 
manner  as  in  that  of  the  Sisters. 

Twilight  came  down  gently,  softly,  adding 
another  neutral  shade  to  the  landscape.  Night 
and  Storm  were  coming  together,  hand  in  hand. 

There  was  a  pair  of  anxious  eyes  at  the  extreme 
end  of  the  village  that  night.  It  is  difficult  for 
one  to  sleep  in  a  strange  bed,  in  an  alien  town, 
but  on  this  occasion  it  was  more  of  a  task  than 
ever.  The  whole  world  was  awake  and  astir  as 
though  its  nerves  were  throbbing  and  sentient 
like  those  of  the  young  woman  who  heard  the 
wind  howling  amongst  the  crevices.  As  the 
darkness  grew  deeper  and  nothing  rem.ained  of 


AFTER    THE    STOllM.  67 

outdoors  but  the  sound  of  waves  and  trees,  she 
stirred  uneasily  in  her  chair,  then  slowly  turned 
to  a  table  by  her  side  and  rang  a  silver  bell. 

The  sound  of  light  feet  upon  the  gallery, 
the  doors  gently  opened  and  shut  in  quick  suc- 
cession preceded  a  softly  modulated  voice  asking 
what  she  wanted. 

"Please,  Miss  Bent,  tell  Mat'ile  to  bring  the 
lamp,  and  to  come  build  me  a  fire." 

The  door  closed  softly,  the  dainty  step  retreated. 
A  few  moments  later  the  outer  doors  slammed, 
the  shuffling  scrape  of  Mathile's  walk  could  be 
heard,  and  she  entered  with  difficulty.  First 
she  set  down  her  bucket  of  wood  and  opened 
a  door,  holding  in  one  hand  the  lamp  which 
shone  upon  her  dusky  face.  Then  she  moved 
the  bucket  inside  and  afterwards  closed  the  por- 
tal. Having  reached  the  room,  she  put  the 
lamp  upon  a  table  and  began  her  task  of  build- 
ing the  fire. 

''We  gwine  hev  a  bad  night,  Momzelle,"  she 
said,  lighting  a  match.  "Ah  theenk  it  will 
stohm.'' 

"Oh,  Mat'ile!" 

"Yis,  Momzelle,  Ah'm  jis'  sho'  it  will.     Mat'ile 


68  AFTER    THE    STORM. 

don't  mek  no  mistek  about  de  wedda."  She 
held  a  small  stick  over  the  flame  of  her  match 
until  it  ignited.  Then  she  placed  that  in  the 
deep,  square  fireplace  and  piled  pine  knots  upon 
it.  Finally,  the  logs  were  laid  upon  the  blaze 
and  a  banner  of  light  streamed  into  the  black 
mouth  of  the  chimney. 

"Mathile/'  said  the  slow  voice  of  Mademoiselle 
de  Montluzin,  "yo^  know  how  to  build  a  fire.'' 

She  spoke  with  such  evident  effort,  so  weakly, 
that  one  understood  why  she  did  not  say  much. 
The  lamp,  lighting  up  the  pillowed  chair  wherein 
she  sat,  proclaimed  her  an  invalid.  She  was, 
alas,  no  convalescent.  Those  large,  bright  eyes, 
those  pale,  sunken  cheeks  with  the  little  pink 
spot  on  the  check  bones;  one  could  read  their 
story  at  a  glance.  Mathile,  big,  fat,  old  Mathile, 
with  her  gaudy  bandana  about  her  head  and  huge 
rings  of  gold  in  her  ears,  stood  and  gazed  at  her 
mistress  with  fascinated  agony  in  her  heart.  She 
had  watched  Mile,  de  Montluzin  thus  for  three 
years.  Her  mission  was  to  make  her  young 
mistress  cheerful,  however,  so  she  talked  a  great 
deal. 

"It  teks  de  onnerstannin',"  said  Mathile,  apro- 


AFTER    THE    STORM.  69 

pos  of  the  fire.  "Wen  a  body  ain'  got  no  onner- 
stannin',  dey  mek  a  lee'le  ting  be  heap  o'  wuk. 
Wen  dey's  got  de  onnerstannin',  dey  mek  a  gret 
big  wuk  on'y  a  lee'le  ting/' 

Mademoiselle  smiled  at  this  philosophy. 

"Momzelle  Bent,  now  she  got  de  onnerstannin", 
uh?  She  know  jis'  w'at  to  do  at  de  right  time. 
En  de  tings  she  mek  yo'  to  eat,  she  fix  jis'  so, 
uh?    Wat  dat  yo'  call  'er?'' 

"A  trained  nurse.'' 

Mathile  gave  a  frank  stare  of  appreciation  at 
this,  but  she  did  not  attempt  to  repeat  it.  Nod- 
ding her  head,  she  said: 

"Well,  I  nu's  yo'  fus'.'' 

Mademoiselle  laughed. 

"Miss  Bent  is  a  sick  nurse,"  she  said. 

"I  nu's  yo'  w'en  yo'  lee'le  chile;  w'en  yo'  fus' 
bohn.     How  long  'go  wuz  dat,  Momzelle?" 

"Twenty-seven  years,  Mathile." 

"Twent'-se'm  yeah !     Oh !     Cahn't  be  dat  long." 

"Yes;  I  was  twenty-three,  you  know,  when 
mother  died." 

"En  'ow  ole  w'en  M'sieu  Hubert  wan'd  yo  to 
mahy  'im?" 

"Hush,  Mathile,  do  not  speak  of  that.     It  is 


70  AFTER   THE    STORM. 

best  that  I  didn't  marry  him,  nor  any  one  else. 
You  see  what  I  have  come  to." 

"Oh,  but,  chile,  da  wan't  none  o'  um  lak  M'sieu' 
Hubert.  An'  ef  on'y  Mom  Montluzin  'ad  'a'  let 
yo'  mahy  'im,  yo'  wouldn't  V  woyied  yo'se'f  sick. 
No,  Momzelle.'' 

At  this  juncture,  Miss  Bent  came  into  the  room, 
bearing  a  tray,  and  the  invalid  prepared  to  eat 
supper.  Mathile  shuffled  out  with  empty  bucket, 
allowing  the  wind  to  slam  the  doors  behind  her 
as  she  went. 

Miss  Bent  attended  to  the  wants  of  her  charge, 
mended  the  fire,  made  ready  for  the  night,  and 
then  sat  down  for  a  chat.  She  was  a  cheery 
little  body,  soft-eyed  and  pink-cheeked,  not  a 
quarter  of  a  century  old  and  with  a  most  unde- 
niable talent  for  nursing.  Her  ways  were  not  only 
scientific,  but  picturesque  as  well,  and  Mile,  de 
Montluzin  admired  to  gaze  at  her.  She  wore  a 
grey  gown,  white  cap,  kerchief  and  apron. 

"I  hope  the  storm  will  not  be  bad,"  she  began. 
"It  will  not  frighten  you,  will  it?" 

"No,"  said  the  invalid.  "Death  would  be  as 
welcome  now  as  at  any  time.  I  am  only  thinking 
of  you." 


AFTER    THE    STORM.  71 

Miss  Bent  laughed. 

"Do  not  think  of  me,"  she  cried.  "There  is  no 
one  left  to  mourn  my  taking  off.  Besides,  I  have 
faced  death  too  often  to  fear  it." 

"I  am  sorry  my  father  and  brother  could  not 
have  come  over  with  us." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Miss  Bent,  cheerfully,  "they 
will  be  here  Saturday.  Certainly  they  could  have 
done  no  better  in  the  selection  of  a  cottage  than 
did  old  Mathile.  But,  then,  she  has  been  with 
your  family  so  long,  I  dare  say  she  understands 
the  individual  tastes  of  each  member." 

"She  drives  a  bargain  well,  too,"  said  the  slow 
voice  of  the  sick  woman.  The  nurse  did  not 
permit  her  patient  to  talk  much.  She  chatted 
freely,  herself,  amusing  Mademoiselle  by  little 
anecdotes  and  personal  experiences,  brightening 
the  dull  moments. 

Mile,  de  Montluzin  was  finally  tucked  in  bed 
and  the  nurse  went  to  her  own  rest  in  an  adjoin- 
ing room.  Neither  of  the  women  could  find 
much  sleep.  The  wind  howled  a  minor  song,  and 
the  cottage  seemed  to  brace  itself  against  the  at- 
tacks of  its  breezy  adversary.  Like  all  far 
Southern  cottages,  it  was  built  upon  piles  or  pil- 


72  AFTER    THE    8T0KM. 

lars,  several  feet  off  the  ground,  having  no  cellar 
or  basement.  As  it  was  a  two-story  house  with 
deeply  gabled  roof,  the  rain  made  very  little  noise 
to  one  on  the  lower  floor,  but  in  the  depth  of  the 
night   Miss  Bent  suddenly  sat  up  in  bed. 

She  had  heard  the  unmistakable  sound  of  lap- 
ping, rushing  water  underneath. 


Brother  Felix  was  aroused  next  morning  be- 
fore the  proper  time.  Like  the  hearty  athlete  he 
was,  he  had  slept  peacefully  through  the  wildest 
storm  the  coast  had  known  for  many  years.  At 
the  summons  he  arose  and  went  to  his  window. 
The  sky  was  clear,  but  waves  mountains  high, 
were  still  rolling  in.  Before  his  sight  went  down 
a  pier  and  a  bath  house  as  though  built  of  cards. 
The  Academy  pier  was  already  gone — so  was  the 
next — ^and  the  next!  Two  of  the  little  shops  on 
the  shore — ^the  grand  old  trees  uprooted — ^boats 
thrown  high  on  the  embankment;  boats  floating 
keel  uppermost  in  the  water!  Brother  Felix 
opened  his  window  and  gazed  up  the  beach. 
The  piers  were  all  gone!  Only  skeleton  posts 
remained.    The  breakwater  was  down  and  part 


AFTER    THE    STORM.  73 

of  the  shell  road  had  caved  in.  Brother  Felix 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

When  he  reached  the  outer  world,  he  found, 
as  he  had  surmised,  that  a  tidal  wave  had  swept  up 
to  the  town.  Then  began  the  work  of  assistance. 
Many  boats  in  the  harbor  overturned  meant 
grievous  loss  of  life  there.  He  helped  to  recover 
some  of  the  bodies.  Tangled  hair,  matted  with 
tangled  seaweed;  driftwood  for  a  pillow;  white 
sand  for  a  bed.  Yet,  they  had  died  peacefully 
enough;  drowning  is  an  easy  death.  This  was 
his  one  crumb  of  comfort  for  the  wild-mouthed 
widows  and  mothers.  Only  once  did  his  heart 
fail  him — when  pretty  Elise  threw  herself  upon 
the  body  of  him  she  was  so  soon  to  have  wedded. 
Brother  Felix  fled. 

There  would  be  one  more  nun  to  serve  the 
Church  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Gulf. 

It  would  shock  you  to  tell  the  dreadful  tales  he 
heard,  the  sights  that  met  his  eyes.  In  the  after- 
noon, a  young  negro  lad  came  to  him,  telling  of 
a  case  needing  assistance. 

"Da's  a  sick  leddy  en'  anodda  leddy,  en'  a  culled 
ooman  out  da  at  de  house  on  de  p'int.  Ah  drobe 
um  out  da  mase'f  w'en  dee  cum  ova'  on  de  cahs, 


74  AFTER   THE    STOKM. 

en'  Ah  ben  out  da  dis  mawnin',  en'  de  house  mos' 
tu'n  ova',  en'  de  watah  hit  all  up  'roun  de  house." 

Brother  Felix  was  wild  with  pity.  The  boats 
had  all  washed  away!  What  was  to  be  done? 
Finally,  the  boy  told  of  one  that  was  stowed  under 
cover,  and  with  great  difficulty  they  procured  that. 

The  sun  was  pacing  down  his  western  halls 
when  they  started.  It  was  about  three  o'clock. 
The  sea  had  worn  itself  out,  beating  calmer  with 
every  stroke  of  the  waves,  until  it  lay  like  a  giant 
opal,  heaving  in  long  stretches  of  color,  almost 
motionless.  The  cloudless  sky  placed  no  ob- 
struction in  the  path  of  the  great  shining  sun. 
Brother  Felix  and  the  boy  bent  to  the  oars  and 
went  along  the  stricken  coast  in  mournful  silence. 
The  house  loomed  in  sight  at  last,  lying  very 
much  tilted  indeed.  The  tidal  wave  had  Hfted  it 
off  its  piles.  As  they  drew  nearer,  they  observed 
a  woman  waving  a  white  cloth  from  one  of  the 
windows.  The  cottage  on  the  point  had  been  cut 
off  as  though  it  were  an  island.  The  swollen 
waters  were  not  yet  subsided.  Brother  Felix 
brought  the  boat  as  close  as  possible,  then 
tramped  over  the  sopping  sands  to  the  entrance, 
climbing  up  by  the  remains  of  broken  timbers. 


AFTER    THE     STORM.  75 

The  woman  had  opened  the  door  for  him,  and 
stood  waiting. 

''God  bless  you  for  coming,"  said  Miss  Bent, 
"I  have  in  my  care  a  lady  who  is  dying  of  pulmon- 
ary consumption,  and  the  shock  she  received  last 
night  has  sapped  all  of  her  nervous  strength.  Can 
we  possibly  get  her  to  the  hotel?" 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  responded  the  Brother. 

"I  shall  prepare  her  to  see  you,"  said  the  nurse. 
She  quickly  ran  upstairs.  For  thither,  with  old 
Mathile's  help,  she  had  carefully  assisted  her  pa- 
tient. Presently  she  returned  and  bade  their 
visitor  follow  her. 

Brother  Felix  entered  the  presence  of  Mile,  de 
Montluzin  with  bared  head.  Miss  Bent,  having 
announced  his  mission,  went  to  make  ready  for 
their  departure — to  search  for  dry  blankets  and 
pillows  to  place  in  the  boat. 

"Madame,"  said  Brother  Felix,  as  he  bowed, 
"I  am  come  with  a  boat  to  assist  you  back  to  the 
village." 

He  was  standing  in  the  full  light  and  could  see 
only  part  of  her  face  because  of  the  deep  shadows 
cast  upon  it.  But  he  could  see  enough  to  ob- 
serve sadly  sunken  cheeks,  a  wasted  figure  against 


76  AFTER    THE    STORM. 

the  pillows.  She  did  not  ask  him  to  be  seated. 
She  had  not  spoken.  Brother  Felix  began  to 
feel  nervous. 

"The  sea  is  no  longer  rough,"  he  said,  gently. 
"We  can  row  you  to  the  hotel  quite  easily.  It  is 
calm." 

There  was  another  silence,  and  then,  in  the 
dragging,  painful  fashion  of  her  speech,  she  said: 

"Stand  here — in  front — ^by  the  window — and 
look  at  me.     Do  you  not  know  me,  Hubert?" 

He  had  crossed  the  room  at  her  first  command. 
He  had  paled  to  the  lips.  Terror  took  posses- 
sion of  his  face.  In  one  instant  it  seemed  to  age 
and  wither.  He  gazed  into  her  enlarged  brown 
eyes,  her  face  so  changed,  and  then  he  blotted 
out  the  vision  with  his  hands,  murmuring: 

"Not  Renee;  not  my  Renee!     Oh!" 

"Come  to  me,  Hubert,"  she  said,  holding  out 
one  shrunken  hand.  The  hectic  spot  on  her 
cheek  burned  bright;  her  eyes  glowed  with  a  new 
light  and  softness.  "Kneel  down  here  by  my 
chair.  That  is  right.  Let  me  place  my  hand  on 
your  head.  Nay,  why  do  you  weep?  Is  it  the 
change  you  behold  in  me?  I  have  changed  in- 
wardly, too.     The  sea  is  no  longer  rough  in  my 


AFTER    THE    STORM.  77 

heart.  It  is  calm.  The  storm,  it  is  true,  destroyed 
the  fibers  of  my  being,  but  I  am  content.  You, 
too,  are  at  peace.  It  is  well.  And  yet — ^there  is 
one  thing  I  lack  to  make  me  happy,  quite,  quite 
happy.  Tell  me,  do  you  still  love  me — in  spite  of 
it  all?  I  have  always  loved  you  as  I  promised  I 
should.  They  could  part  our  bodies,  but  my 
heart,  my  spirit,  was  always  with  you,  Hubert." 

He  bent  over  her  hands  clasped  in  his  and 
kissed  them.  The  tears  rained  down  his  cheeks 
as  he  told  her,  of  his  devotion.  He  broke  his 
vows,  in  thought,  there  on  his  knees  to  Renee. 
Warm,  passionate  kisses  upon  her  hands  seemed 
a  balm  to  that  tired  soul.     She  sat  up  straight. 

'*Some  other  day — some  other  time — some 
other  life,"  she  said,  smiling,  nodding.  "We 
shall  love  each  other  again,  Hubert." 

She  fell  back  against  the  pillows.  Renee  de 
Montluzin  had  become  but  a  memory. 


Brother  Felix  labored  for  the  stricken  towns- 
people. He  had  always  been  grave,  quiet,  but 
now  a  gentleness  pervaded  his  actions,  a  sym- 
pathy drew  his  fellow-creatures  to  him  which  was 


78  AFTER   THE    STORM. 

unlike  any  trait  they  had  observed  before.  And 
when  the  worst  distress  was  over,  it  was  Brother 
FeHx  whom  most  frequently  they  extolled.  Still 
stands  the  little  church  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Gulf. 
The  Academy  yard  is  green,  the  hedge  is  kept 
closely  trimmed;  the  bordered  walk  is  white  and 
firm.  Up  and  down  the  sheltered  alley  passes 
Brother  Felix  in  his  black  cassock.  Not  so 
strong  his  figure,  not  so  black  his  soft  hair.  But 
he  smiles  as  he  walks;  his  hands  clasp  together. 
He  raises  his  head  and  looks  upward,  as  he 
whispers : 

"Some    other    day — some    other    time — some 
other  life." 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  GULF. 

Hot  the  sunshine  poured  to  earth  from  the 
molten  crucible  of  the  sun,  but  a  cooling  breeze 
blew  from  the  deep  blue  gulf  like  a  breath  of  bene- 
diction. Against  the  cerulean  heavens  the  ver- 
'dure  of  the  tree  tops  looked  like  emeralds  in  a 
turquoise  setting.  A  low,  moaning  wind  blowing 
through  the  eolian  harp  of  the  pines,  at  the  same 
time  pilfered  their  fragrance.  Incense  and  music 
it  brought  to  Brother  Felix  as  he  rested  in  the 
yard  of  the  convent,  under  the  shade  of  a  glossy 
magnolia  tree. 

While  he  sat  thus  reading  his  favorite  paper  in 
the  holiday  time,  the  young  priest  of  the  village 
came  from  the  Academy  door  and  walked  toward 
the  magnolia,  pausing  on  his  way  across  the  grass 
to  look  at  the  marble  sundial.  He  and  Brother 
Felix  had  become  great  friends.  They  had  seen 
each  other  once  before  on  this  bright  morning. 

"Well,  how  does  he  carry  himself?"  asked 
Brother  Felix. 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF. 


"Poorly,"  answered  Father  Renaud,  "very 
poorly,  indeed.  I  believe,"  he  contirued,  shak- 
ing his  head,  "that  the  good  old  Father  will  soon 
be  enjoying  the  rest  he  has  earned." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  Brother  sadly,  "He  was  a 
good  shepherd  to  this  little  flock.  I  suppose  you 
have  found  since  you  came  to  take  his  place,  that 
the  villagers  love  him  as  a  real  father." 

"Yes,  Brother  Felix,  he  and  another,  whose 
name  I  need  not  mention,  seem  to  have  wound 
themselves  about  the  hearts  of  the  people.  I  am 
afraid  that  even  more  than  the  memory  of  Father 
Bourgeois,  I  shall  have  to  contend  against  the 
presence  of  Brother  Felix." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Felix,  smiling  and  flushing, 
"you  flatter  me.  Besides,  all  the  affection  I  have 
obtained  has  been  through  long  and  earnest  labor. 
You  seem  to  have  captured  them  at  once  with  that 
wonderful  quality  known  as  personal  magnetism." 

"My  life!"  softly  laughed  the  young  priest. 
"What  a  mutual  admiration  society  we  are!" 

His  laugh  was  as  frank  and  open  as  his  face, 
and  Brother  Felix  smiled  broadly  in  response, 
showing  fine,  white  teeth. 

They  chatted  upon  all  subjects  freely,  enjoying 


THE   LADY    OF   THE   GULF.  83 

that  stimulus  to  conversation  which  comes  when 
two  people  are  aware  that  they  like  each  other 
upon  short  acquaintance.  Then,  too,  they  neither 
one  were  very  old,  the  priest  being  the  younger. 

He  was  a  man  twenty-eight  years  old,  fully  six 
feet  tall,  possessing  a  slender,  noble  figure,  with 
a  small  head  of  admirable  contour.  His  hair  had 
an  auburn  shade,  and  a  decided  wave  in  it;  his 
brown  eyes  were  soft  and  dark,  their  lashes  as 
long  as  a  girl's,  and  very  black.  His  complexion 
was  clear;  the  features  were  molded  upon  a  firm 
but  delicate  cast,  the  whole  countenance  bespeak- 
ing purity  and  candor.  Brother  Felix  could  not 
account  for  the  warmth  he  felt  toward  Father 
Renaud.  It  was  beyond  admiration  for  his  elo- 
quence; it  was  much  more  than  fascination.  He 
decided  that  it  was  because  their  hearts  were 
tuned  in  the  same  key. 

Brother  Felix,  having  few  joys  and  fewer  loves, 
accepted  it  as  a  consolation  and  rejoiced. 

Father  Renaud  had  been  sent  to  relieve  Father 
Bourgeois  in  his  failing  old  age.  Now  the  old 
Father  was  really  dying;  having  received  his  last 
sacrament,  he  had  lost  consciousness,  and  it  re- 
mained but  to  wait  for  the  end. 


84  THE  LADY   OF   THE   GULF. 

"I  have  been  here  for  nine  weeks  to-day,"  said 
the  young  priest.  Once  more  looking  at  the  sun- 
dial, he  remarked:  "I  must  go  to  the  church  now 
to  hear  confessions.  By  the  way,  I  am  charmed 
with  the  name  of  the  church.  'Our  Lady  of  the 
Gulf.'     It  is  so  appropriate." 

"Yes,"  said  Brother  Felix,  ''it  pleases  the  fisher- 
men. They  always  speak  of  it  with  individual 
regard." 

"Au  revoir,"  said  the  priest. 

"Good  day,"  replied  the  Brother,  and  sat  watch- 
ing the  handsome  figure  of  Philippe  Renaud  go 
across  the  grass,  observing  that  the  black  cassock 
enhanced  its  grace.  Alas,  he  thought,  what  a 
pity  the  priesthood  could  not  marry!  Celibacy 
was  only  meant  for  the  old,  the  disappointed,  the 
disconsolate — not  for  a  care-free  youth  like  that! 
With  a  sigh  he  turned  back  to  his  reading. 

Father  Renaud  wended  his  way  to  the  church. 
It  lay  not  far  from  the  Academy,  a  gray  stone 
structure,  with  the  slender  spire  pointing  above  a 
gold  marked  clock  as  if  to  say :  "Thy  time  on  earth 
is  short;  prepare  for  heaven."  There  were  sev- 
eral people  in  the  church,  scattered  about,  kneel- 


THE   LADY   OF   THE    GULF.  85 

ing,  gazing  abstractedly  into  their  own  souls,  as 
they  moved  their  lips  in  prayer. 

The  little  church  was  proud  of  its  three  highly 
decorated  altars.  There  were  some  excellent 
paintings  that  had  been  done  in  Paris.  The  holy 
water  font  was  a  huge  shell  lying  on  a  pedestal. 
There  was  one  side  altar  to  St.  Joseph.  It  was 
draped  in  white  and  gold;  fragrant  flowers  stood 
in  its  vases;  the  ornaments  were  of  good  design 
and  the  tapers  were  fresh.  Over  the  altar  was  a 
beautiful  picture  with  several  figures  in  it.  That 
representing  the  Christ  was  a  manlier  type  than 
such  faces  usually  are.  The  one  of  the  Virgin  had 
a  most  life-like  expression.  It  quite  haunted 
Father  Renaud  for  a  fortnight  after  he  arrived, 
until  one  day  he  spoke  of  it  to  Brother  Felix. 

"It  is  good,"  smiled  the  Brother.  "The  reason 
it  strikes  you  so  forcibly  is  that  you  have  seen  the 
face  it  was  painted  from.  The  picture  was  in- 
jured by  a  ladder  which  fell  against  it  when  a 
workman  was  repairing  the  window.  It  remained 
with  the  face  of  the  Madonna  badly  scarred  until 
about  six  months  ago.  A  young  artist  then 
strayed  into  the  village,  and  it  happened  that  he 
knew  Father  Bourgeois.     As  he  had  taken  sev- 


86  THE  LADY   OF   THE   GULF. 

eral  medals  in  Paris,  the  Father  looked  upon  him 
in  the  light  of  a  divine  messenger  and  gave  him 
an  order  to  replace  the  head. 

'The  young  painter  asked  me  whether  there 
were  any  pretty  nuns  over  at  the  convent  I  told 
him  he  might  see  them  on  the  street  at  any  time. 
To  me  they  are  all  beautiful  from  their  consecra- 
tion." 

"In  that,"  commented  Father  Renaud,  "they  all 
resemble  the  Madonna." 

"Is  it  not  so?"  said  Brother  Felix.  "The  artist 
smiled  at  my  remark  and  answered  that  to  him  a 
saint-like  countenance  seemed  more  holy  when  it 
was  beautiful.  In  the  congregation  on  Sunday 
he  spied  the  face  of  young  Sister  Cecilia.  At  once 
he  desired  to  use  her  for  a  model  for  Our  Lady. 
The  sittings  were  permitted  by  Mother  Elizabeth, 
and  she  herself  accompanied  Sister  Cecilia  to 
pose." 

The  young  priest  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
studying  the  face  above  the  altar.  At  length  he 
remarked : 

"Yes,  I  think  that  must  be  it.  If  I  remember 
correctly  she  has  charge  of  the  younger  children." 

"That  is  Sister  Cecilia,"  responded  his  friend. 


THE   LADY    OF   THE   GULF.  87 

To  say  the  least,  that  one  face  was  the  best  of  the 
group.  Likely  enough  the  later  life  of  the  Holy 
Mother  was  not  an  altogether  peaceful,  reposeful 
one,  and  in  this  face  was  something  that  coincided 
with  such  a  theory.  It  lacked  the  calm,  china- 
doll  expression  of  ordinary  Madonnas.  There 
was  longing,  wonder,  questioning.  Was  it  also 
this,  perhaps,  that  made  one  remember  it? 

Upon  the  altar  under  the  picture  were  many 
little  slabs  of  marble  engraved  and  bearing  the 
gilded  legends:  "Merci,"  or  "Thanks,'^  sometimes 
with  the  date,  also.  In  a  near  corner  were  dis- 
carded crutches  and  canes. 

The  other  side  altar  was  similar.  The  confes- 
sion box  which  Father  Renaud  occupied,  was 
half  way  down  a  side  aisle. 

Father  Renaud  was  not  fond  of  hearing  con- 
fessions. Sometimes  they  made  him  secretly 
angry;  sometimes  they  made  him  sad.  It  was. 
one  of  his  tasks  which  he  performed  from  a  strict 
sense  of  duty.  Nothing  of  note  occurred  this 
warm  afternoon  until  the  end  of  the  time  usually 
given  to  the  audience.  The  church  was  empty 
once  more  and  he  was  preparing  to  leave,  when 


88  THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF. 

the  door  opened  and  two  sisters  came  silently 
down  the  aisle. 

Father  Renaud  waited  until  they  reached  him. 
The  foremost  sister  was  an  elderly  woman,  round 
and  fat,  with  steel  spectacles  prominent  beneath 
her  w^hite  linen  bonnet.  Following  Mother  Eliz- 
abeth came  she  whose  title  Father  Renaud  had 
heard  from  Brother  Felix  seven  weeks  before. 
It  was  Sister  Cecilia. 

Being  tall,  she  could  look  over  the  Mother 
Superior's  head.  Her  eyes,  as  she  walked  up  the 
dark  aisle  were  fixed  intently  upon  the  priest. 
Gray  eyes  they  were,  a  pure  grey  like  the  sky 
which  hangs  above  a  snowy  landscape.  But  they 
had  another  quality  in  unison  with  the  clouds — 
they  could  deepen  and  darken,  and  moist  drops 
fell  from  them,  too.  She  had  almost  too  much 
color.  When  she  smiled  she  had  deep  dimples. 
Her  cheeks  were  rather  plump  but  she  had  a 
small,  round  chin.  The  face,  with  its  glow  and 
mobility  of  expression,  was  not  the  serene  coun- 
tenance  of  a  nun.  Her  slender  figure,  erect  car- 
riage, graceful  movement,  had  no  place  clad  in 
black  serge.  She  was  too  much  the  goddess  in 
form  to  be  the  disciple  in  spirit. 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF.  89 

Father  Renaud,  watching  her  figure  sway  up 
the  dark  aisle,  hkened  it  to  a  wind-blown  poppy. 
He  knew  that  beneath  that  snowy  cape  fluttered 
a  heart  as  wild  and  warm  as  the  crimson  field 
flower.  He  was  her  confessor.  For  two  months 
in  the  discharge  of  his  duty  he  had  learned  of  the 
restless,  life-loving  character,  and,  knowing  of 
her  what  he  did,  he  said  to  himself: 

"  I  wonder  what  is  coming  now?" 

Mother  Elizabeth  plumped  her  rotund  body 
down  into  a  pew.  Sister  Cecilia  remained  stand- 
ing in  the  aisle  motionless,  while  Mother  Eliza- 
beth  spoke. 

''  I  have  brought  her  here  to  you  again.  This 
time  talk  to  her  yourself.  You  are  her  spiritual 
adviser;  perhaps  she  will  tell  you  why  she  wants 
to  go  away  from  this  place." 

"To  go  away?"  calmly  echoed  Father  Renaud. 

He  looked  into  the  grey  eyes  of  Sister  Cecilia. 
Then  he  looked  down  upon  the  stone  pavement. 

"Tell  me  the  trouble.  Mother." 

"  I  cannot.  She  is  restless  and  unhappy.  Usu- 
ally I  can  give  advice  to  those  under  my  charge 
without  assistance.  But  in  this  case  my  kindest 
efi^orts  are  of  no  avail.     She  meekly  carries  out 


90  THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF, 

the  penance  inflicted;  she  obeys  my  rules;  she  is 
an  excellent  teacher  to  the  little  ones,  and  yet — 
she  is  forever  dissatisfied.  She  renders  all  St. 
Mary's  unhappy.  Then  when  I  demand  to  know 
what  is  the  reason,  she  only  begs  me  to  let  her  go 
away.     She  has  asked  me  to  transfer  her.'' 

"  Reverend  Mother,"  said  the  priest  quietly, 
^withdraw  a  bit  and  I  will  talk  to  her." 

The  Superioress  accordingly  went  to  the  back 
of  the  church.  Father  Renaud  entered  the  con- 
fessional, and  Sister  Cecilia  knelt  in  the  place  of 
penitents. 

Mother  Elizabeth  also  knelt  and  prayed.  Then 
she  ceased  and  opened  her  eyes  and  looked 
'  through  the  length  of  the  church  at  the  altar 
dedicated  to  St.  Joseph.  Over  it  was  the  pic- 
ture for  which  had  posed  the  exquisite  face  of 
Sister  Cecilia.  Suddenly  there  came  a  flash  of 
memory,  recalling  the  young  artist  who  painted 
it.  How  he  had  gazed  at  his  model!  The  Mother 
Superior  began  to  speculate  on  probabilities. 

Sister  Cecilia  had  been  in  the  order  but  a  year. 
Why  she  had  joined  the  sisterhood,  no  one  could 
tell.  Her  mother,  weeping,  had  said  it  was  done 
in  a  moment  of  religious  enthusiasm.     Her  best 


THE  LADY   OF   THE   GULF.  91 

friend,  a  girl  of  expressed  opinions,  said  stoutly: 

"Nonsense!  She  did  it  to  find  out  what  it 
was  like.  She  had  tired  of  society  in  three  years; 
she  had  never  found  the  consolation  of  falling 
in  love,  so  she  took  the  vows  to  get  away  from 
if' 

That  was  not  a  fair  estimate  in  its  entirety,  but 
it  was  a  near  approach  to  the  truth.  Marie  said 
Suzanne  Benoit  had  found  life  a  bore  without 
love.  The  men  she  met  wearied  her,  everything 
wearied  her  in  the  artificial  glare  of  society.  She 
desired  to  be  an  artist,  but  her  mother  was  vio- 
lently opposed  to  anything  so  bohemian  and  pro- 
fessional. The  mother  was  a  woman  of  super- 
ficial character,  a  bundle  of  overwrought  nerves, 
and  selfish  to  the  core.  Susanne  might  have  taken 
the  vows  to  escape  from  her  tyranny. 

Nevertheless,  once  received  into  the  sisterhood 
she  regretted  her  course.  Mother  Elizabeth, 
toward  whom  she  was  as  reticent  as  she  dared  be, 
would  have  enjoyed  keen  surprise  to  hear  her  as 
she  poured  out  her  grief  to  the  good  Father  Re- 
naud. 

"  Ever  since  I  first  saw  you  standing  there  at 
the  altar,''  said  Sister  Cecilia,   "I  felt  that  you 


92  THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF. 

would  help  me.  Perhaps  I  am  mistaken.  The 
whole  truth  is  this: 

"  Last  winter  a  young  man  painted  the  Madonna 
over  the  St.  Joseph  shrine  from  me.  Watching 
him  handle  the  brushes,  knowing  of  the  success 
he  had  achieved — nay  even  the  very  smell  of  the 
oil  made  me  restless.  I  want  to  get  away.  I 
do  not  care  for  the  world,  Father,  I  could  do 
without  it  beautifully — society,  I  mean.  But  oh, 
I  so  long  to  be  an  artist!  To  go  to  Paris  and 
study!  I  have  often  thought  that  if  I  could  only 
have  married  a  man  who  would  let  me  study  paint- 
ing, I  would  have  been  happy,  though  I  did  not 
love  him.     I  made  such  a  mistake  to  come  here.'' 

''My  child/'  said  the  low  voice  of  Father  Re- 
naud,  "are  you  sure,  quite  sure,  that  it  is  the  paint- 
ing you  long  to  do,  or  is  it  a  romantic  attach- 
ment you  have  fostered  for  this  young  artist — is 
it  a  marriage  you  seek?  Nay,  listen  to  me.  I 
wish  first  to  tell  you  that  here  in  this  place  where 
you  kneel,  time  after  time  I  hear  the  sighs  and 
complaints  of  people,  men  and  women  who  are 
married,  but  who,  upon  one  side  or  the  other, 
find  that  lack  of  love  which  renders  marriage 
a  hollow  mockery.     There  is  only  one  life  that 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF.  93 

satisfies  one  fully.     It  is  the  spiritual  existence." 

"  But  Father,"  sadly  said  Sister  Cecilia,  "  I  have 
not  found  it  so,  for  I  am  not  content!  I  wish  to 
leave  the  order." 

"You  can  study  painting.  You  can  be  a 
teacher  in  one  of  the  advanced  convent  schools. 
You  can  send  your  work  outside  and  you  can  win 
a  fame  amongst  your  scholars." 

"And  that  would  take  me  away  from  St. 
Mary's?"  she  asked  joyfully. 

The  priest  was  silent  for  a  moment.  When 
at  length  he  found  his  speech  it.  was  calm  and 
slow. 

"  You  have  not  yet  answered  me  in  regard  to 
this  young  man.  I  shall  give  you  a  few  days 
to  think  over  what  you  will  say  to  me — " 

"  Oh,  let  me—" 

"  Nay,  do  not  answxr  now.  You  will  go  in 
silence  and  commune  with  yourself  about  this 
matter.  You  will  tell  me  your  thoughts.  But 
not  to-day.  Next  Saturday.  You  will  have 
learned  your  heart  by  that  time.  You  may  tell 
me  then  all  about  it." 

"  But  Father,  I  know  my  heart  now." 

"  Daughter,  I  wish  you  first  to  think  about  it." 


94  THE  LADY   OF    THE    GULF. 

Tears  of  vexation  sprang  to  her  eyes,  but  she 
meekly  bowed  her  head. 

The  priest  dismissed  her  and  she  rejoined 
Mother  Elizabeth  in  a  silence  that  could  only 
end  by  the  solace  of  weeping. 

The  good  old  Father  Bourgeois  was  dead. 
Such  a  funeral  had  never  been  seen  in  the  village. 
Barouche  after  barouche  came  into  the  town, 
each  drawn  by  the  lean  and  tiny  pony  which 
abounds  on  the  coast  and  its  islands.  These  little 
horses  are  never  even  plump,  but  in  spite  of  their 
meagre  dimensions,  they  can  draw  heavy  loads, 
and  that,  too,  with  a  jaunty  indifference.  They 
make  one  think  of  the  rats  which  Cinderella's 
Fairy  Godmother  changed  to  horses,  one  of  which 
must  have  stopped  half  way  in  its  growth. 

At  a  funeral  it  is  not  seemly  to  ridicule  the 
cortege,  of  course,  and  the  natives  being  accus- 
tomed to  these  little  rats  of  horses,  only  drove 
to  the  ceremony  or  in  the  procession  with  grave 
faces  and  sad  hearts. 

The  little  church  was  crowded  to  suffocation. 
It  was  very,  very  warm;  but  despite  the  heat, 
despite  the  environment,  there  was  a  deep  atten- 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF.  95 

tion  and  a  sense  of  the  brevity  of  time  as  they 
Hstened  to  Father  Renaud's  funeral  oration. 

It  was  subHme,  upHfting;  it  was  an  inspiration. 
He  pointed  the  way  to  a  better  hfe  and  made  one 
long  to  lead  it.  His  eloquence  held  them  spell- 
bound as  he  showed  them  what  a  beautiful  exam- 
ple their  priest  had  set  them,  and  when  he  had 
ceased  talking  there  was  a  hush  and  pause  over 
the  congregation. 

The  old  priest,  glorified,  being  laid  to  rest, 
Father  Renaud  remained  in  the  village  to  fill  his 
place. 

The  Thursday  after  the  funeral — not  quite  a 
week  since  Sister  Cecilia  came  to  confession  with 
Mother  Elizabeth — was  a  bright,  clear  day.  The 
landscape  lay  wreathed  in  deep  summer  green. 
If  one  were  upon  it,  one  perceived  the  earth  to  be 
dry  and  hot.  Down  in  one  corner  of  the  horizon, 
over  the  water,  a  bunch  of  snow  white  clouds 
were  clustered,  fluffy  nestlings  against  the  breast 
of  their  mother,  air.  But  clouds  were  not  always 
a  sure  sign  of  rain.  One  was  sometimes  led  to 
believe  that  they  were  but  a  natural  adjunct  to 
the  sublime  beauty  of  the  scene;  part  of  the  stage 
setting  for  sunsets  and  bright  mornings. 


96  THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF. 

Father  Renaud  was  standing  at  the  gate  of  the 
Academy  talking  to  several  of  the  Brothers.  A 
small  boy  ran  across  the  street  and  came  up  to 
the  group,  panting.  Little,  flat,  moist  curls  against 
his  brow,  red  cheeks,  dusty  bare  feet,  all  betokened 
haste  and  heat. 

*Tlease,  Brother  Felix,"  he  said  in  gasps, 
"won't  you  take  us  boys  somewhere  to-day? 
Sister  Cecilia's  takin'  my  little  sister's  class  out  on 
the  North  Hill,  an'  they're  goin'  to  have  dinner 
out  there  an'  have  a  picnic." 

There  was  a  general  smile  on  the  faces  of  the 
men  in  the  group,  but  no  sound  escaped  except 
the  voice  of  Brother  Felix.  Up  the  street  a  little 
procession  could  be  seen,  children  walking  two  by 
two,  and  a  Sister  bending  over  them  here  and 
there,  the  white  wings  of  her  cornette  gleaming 
in  the  sunshine.  Father  Renaud  knew  she  was 
smiling  and  chatting  merrily  with  them  as  she 
adjusted  their  belongings  or  their  positions.  She 
was  going  with  them  alone.  Well,  she  would  cer- 
tainly have  her  hands  full! 

"  Emile,"  said  Brother  Felix,  "it  is  too  late  now. 
Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  yesterday?  You 
could  not  gather  the  boys  together  on  such  short 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF.  97 

notice.     We  can  go   Saturday.     Will  that  do?'' 
Emile  paused  a  moment  and  fingered  his  torn 
straw  hat. 

"  Oh,  couldn't  we  please  go  to-day?" 
"I'm  afraid  not,  my  little  man,"  replied  the 
good  Brother.  "We  should  want  an  abundance 
to  eat  for  twenty  hungry  boys,  and  it  takes  time 
to  prepare  the  games.  We  will  go  on  Saturday 
and  you  may  go  and  tell  the  boys  now  if  you 
wish." 

"All  right,"  said  Emile.  He  smiled  brightly, 
jammed  his  battered  hat  tightly  on  his  curly  brown 
head  and  bounded  away.  Brother  Felix  looked 
after  him  with  a  tender  light  on  his  handsome 
face. 

"  Would  that  I  were  in  that  little  fellow's  shoes," 
he  said. 

"Why,  he's  barefooted!"  exclaimed  Father 
Renaud.  Brother  Felix  gracefully  acknowledged 
the  burst  of  laughter  which  ensued,  and  they 
stood  watching  the  little  girls'  procession  as  it 
passed  out  of  sight. 

Then,  hanging  on  the  gate,  the  quartet  resumed 
their  heated  discussion.  It  was  concerning  the 
ex-priest  who  had  been  mobbed  in  a  northern 


98  THE  LADY  OF   THE   GULF. 

town  because  he  had  married.  It  was  argued  at 
length  amongst  them.  Brother  FeHx  expressed 
his  opinion  that  he  was  right  to  have  married. 
He  beHeved  in  the  marriage  of  the  clergy,  for 
even  our  Master  had  said  it  is  not  good  for  man 
to  live  alone. 

"But/'  said  Father  Renaud,  "Christ  chose  a 
life  of  celibacy.'' 

"Why?"  asked  Brother  Felix.  "Did  you  ever 
reason  it  out?  Did  you  ever  picture  to  yourself 
what  the  result  would  have  been  in  modern  times? 
Think  !  He  came  on  earth  to  render  all  men 
equal.  He  founded  a  religion  which  worships 
Him  as  having  sprung  from  God.  If  Christ  had 
married,  His  children  would  have  been  wor- 
shipped as  saints,  even  in  life.  His  descendants 
would  be  revered  as  the  highest  type  of  human- 
kind. It  would  have  created  an  aristocracy  more 
despotic  than  that  made  by  the  blue  blood  of 
kings  of  earth.  It  would  have  been  a  danger 
and  a  menace  to  the  very  social  and  moral  laws 
He  taught.  His  far-seeing  mind  perceived  that 
matrimony  was  not  for  Him,  although  in  other 
men  He  sanctioned  and  blessed  it.  It  is  the 
only  way  to  live  in  purity  and  contentment!" 


THE   LADY   OF   THE    GULF.  99 

Brother  Felix  was  riding  his  hobby.  The  other 
men,  though  ripe  for  argument,  remained  silent. 
There  were  a  thousand  unuttered  questions  on 
their  lips,  and  a  deep  wonder  filled  them  that 
Brother  Felix  should  be  living  a  life  with  which 
he  was  not  in  sympathy.  But  since  the  tragic 
death  of  Mile,  de  Montluzin,  a  mysterious  ro- 
mance had  been  woven  about  him,  and  men  are 
such  gossips  that  each  of  them  there  knew  as 
much  as  any  one  else.  Regard  for  Brother  Felix 
now  closed  their  lips.  In  the  embarrassed  pause 
which  followed.  Father  Renaud  said: 

"  Friends,  I  must  away  from  this  edifying  as- 
semblage. I  would  like  to  find  a  letter  from  my 
good  mother  waiting  for  me  at  the  post-office. 
May  I  ask  for  letters  for  one  or  all  of  you?" 

Having  received  their  negatives  and  their  po- 
lite thanks,  he  parted  from  them  and  strode  down 
the  village  street  whose  dust  vibrated  in  parched 
thirst  unslaked. 

He  found  a  letter  for  him — a  letter  just  like 
those  he  received  once  a  week,  full  of  love  and 
affection  and  pride.  But  the  missive  to-day  had 
one  paragraph  in  it  which  seemed  to  trouble  him. 
He  read  it  several  times,  then  closed  his  hand 


100  THE  LADY  OF  THE  GULF. 

with  a  fierce  grip  over  the  paper  and  strode  on 
in  the  quivering  heat.  Away  from  the  convent, 
away  from  the  pavements  and  the  town,  out 
towards  the  trees  and  the  free  country,  until  he 
found  himself  at  the  little  wooded  slope  they  called 
North  Hill. 

He  paused  and  wondered  how  he  had  reached  it 
so  quickly.  And  yet  he  did  not  return.  The 
shade  of  the  great,  moss-hung  live  oaks  was  so 
cool;  the  palmettos  under  his  feet  looked  greener 
and  fresher;  the  v/oods  were  broad,  were  inviting. 
Being  half  vv^ay  up  the  hill  by  this  time,  he  gave 
his  attention  to  the  serious  task  of  climbing,  and 
— suddenly  came  with  a  start  of  surprise  upon 
Sister  Cecilia,  with  her  embroidery  lying  idle  as 
she  watched  him  walk  towards  her.  She  sat  with 
her  back  against  a  tree.  The  children  were 
scattered  about  in  her  sight,  and  if  they  wandered 
too  far,  she  blew  a  silver  whistle  for  them  to  come 
within  bounds.  They  were  playing  little  games 
and  busy  with  their  own  affairs. 

Father  Renaud  sat  down  upon  the  ground 
facing  her. 

Sister  Cecilia's  face  was  by  no  means  too  rosy 
now,  for  it  was  very  white.     She  raised  her  head 


THK  LADY   OF   THE    GULF.  lOl 

higher  with-  a  snake-Hke,  graceful  movement, 
and  in  an  instant  had  changed  from  the  meek  nun 
to  the  woman  of  the  world. 

"Why  did  you  come  here!''  she  demanded. 
''Who  told  you  where  I  was?"  She  looked  at 
him  with  dark,  angry  eyes;  her  color  came  surg- 
ing back. 

Father  Renaud  sat  gazing  at  her  with  hands 
clasped  about  his  knees.  His  black  cassock  and 
white  collar  set  of¥  the  clear  pallor  of  his  cheek. 
Only  the  lips  were  red,  and  his  mouth  not  at  all 
that  of  the  prelate.  His  eye  lids  closed  with  a  mo- 
mentary expression  of  weariness,  and  then  opened 
wide  to  look  full  at  her. 

"  I  came  unawares,"  he  quickly  said.  "  Old 
habit,  I  suppose,  the  old  fascination — your  never 
failing  power  over  me.  And  I  have  you  alone 
at  last.  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  bit  of  my  mind 
and  you  will  have  to  listen." 

She  leaned  against  the  tree  trunk  for  a  moment, 
scanning  his  face.  Then  she  sat  upright,  smiling 
that  roguish,  dimpled  smile,  and  raise!  the  silver 
whistle  to  her  lips. 

Father  Renaud  gave  a  little  gasp. 


102  THE  LADY   OF   THE   GTTLF. 

After  all,  she  did  not  blow  it,  but  let  it  fall  and 
took  up  her  embroidery. 

"  Suzanne,"  he  said  sadly,  "  still  the  coquette." 

"  No,"  she  said  quite  gravely,  "  I  have  an  object 
in  life  now;  it  is  only  when  one  has  nothing- 
serious  in  one's  thoughts  that  one  can  be  a  co- 
quette." 

"  You  an  object  in  life — you?" 

"Yes,  ah,  yes!  And  I  shall  not  tell  what  it  is, 
even  if  you  are  my  Father  Confessor." 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him 
scornfully.  "How  can  you,  oh,  how  can  you  pre- 
tend so!" 

"  I  must,"  he  answered  firmly.  "  It  is  for  your 
own  sake.  If  they  knew — ah!  If  they  knew  that 
you  had  flouted  me  and  led  me  on  and  played 
with  my  heart  and  finally  thrown  me  over!  If 
they  knew  that  the  reason  for  my  earnest  devotion 
to  the  Church  was  because  I  could  not  devote 
my  life  to  you,  they  would  send  you  away.  But 
you  cannot  go  away!" 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  half-frightened 
eyes. 

"I  am  at  the  head  of  this  parish,"  he  said  quietly. 
Then  he  softly  said :     "  Ah,  Suzanne,  what  a  pity 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF.  103 

it  is!  How  young  you  were — how  young  to 
have  controlled  two  destinies!  Do  you  remem- 
ber? I  recall  every  phase  of  it.  I  know  your 
very  words  by  heart;  but  that  is  merely  because 
I  had  a  good  memory  and  because  it  was  the 
turning-point  in  my  life.  Bah!  I  thought  I 
had  forgotten  it.  And  then  Fate  led  me  blindly 
to  this  town.  When  they  showed  me  the  church, 
I  saw  your  face  as  the  face  of  Our  Lady  of  the 
Gulf,  What  a  mockery!  And  yet,  no,  for  through 
you,  my  lady,  I  had  encountered  a  gulf  of  trouble. 
The  next  Sunday  as  I  stepped  before  the  congre- 
gation, my  brain  seemed  to  fairly  reel  as  I  looked 
upon  your  living,  upturned  face." 

"You  did  not  know  I  had  taken  the  vows?'' 
she  asked. 

"  No.  I  had  never  heard  from  you.  I  had 
tried  to  blot  you  out  of  my  life.  God  knows  I 
tried  to  do  so  conscientiously." 

He  bent  his  head  until  his  brow  touched  his 
knees.     Then  he  raised  himself. 

"  However,  when  we  met,  I  made  no  sign. 
Neither  did  you.  Brother  Felix  told  me  the  story 
of  the  painting  over  the  altar.  You  yourself  told 
me  you  were  restless  because  of  it.     Mother  Eliz- 


104  THE  LADY  OF  THE  GULF. 

abeth  has  confided  her  fears  that  you  love  that 
man  V^ 

"  Remember/^  she  began,  with  a  twinkle  in  her 
eyes,  "  I  am  not  to  tell  you  of  that  affair  till  Sat- 
urday!" 

''Oh,  Suzanne,  Suzanne!  Don't  you  under- 
stand that  that  was  all  sham!  Do  you  not  see 
that  I  was  afraid  Mother  Elizabeth's  sharp  ear 
would  catch  our  words?  I  was  afraid  to  hear  the 
truth  even  in  my  official  capacity.  I  was  afraid 
we  would  betray  ourselves.  But  here,  under 
God's  wide  heaven,  we  are  face  to  face  as  man 
and  woman!  Tell  me  the  truth.  I  promise  you 
to  put  aside  all  my  selfish,  futile  thoughts  of  you. 
What  right  have  I  to  think  of  you?  If  you  love 
him  tell  me  so,  and  I  shall  help  you  to  escape  and 
to  marry  him!" 

Father  Renaud  had  paused,  leaning  forward  in 
an  agonized  intensity. 

"Listen,  Philippe,"  she  began  softly.  "Do  not 
go  quite  so  swiftly.  Let  us  begin  far  back,  with 
ourselves.  It  is  true  I  did  trifle  with  you  wretch- 
edly. I  was  young,  as  you  say — so  young  that 
life  had  only  infinite  possibilities  and  no  horizon 
whatsoever.     I  adored  you,  with  it  all.     I  quite 


THE  LADY   OF   THE   GULF.  105 

expected  you  to  return  when  I  sent  you  away. 
When  you  did  not,  I  was  at  first  piqued,  then 
melancholy;  then  I  affected  indifference.  My  in- 
timates could  not  understand  why  I  never  fell  in 
love.  The  reason  was  that  no  one  came  up  to 
you  where  you  were  mounted  on  my  pedestal. 
When  I  heard  you  had  entered  the  priesthood, 
my  heart  stood   still,   aghast. 

"  *  Wei V  I  said,  '  here  is  nothing  left  but  for 
me  to  enter  a  convent.' 

"But  the  world  is  sweet  to  me,  and  I  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  being  shut  up,  so  I  chose  to 
be  a  teaching  Sister.  I  have  tried  to  be  contented. 
I  submerged  myself  in  my  new  duties.  Then 
came  that  artist  to  paint  the  Madonna.  I  never 
saw  him  alone.  I  sat  patiently,  day  after  day, 
while  he  and  Mother  Elizabeth  talked  incessantly 
of — what  do  you  think?  Of  the  failing  powers 
of  Father  Bourgeois,  of  the  priest  who  would 
probably  be  called  to  take  his  active  work — the 
brilliant  young  Philippe  Renaud!  Now,  do  you 
wonder  at  the  expression  on  the  face  of  Our 
JLady?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  questioning  eyes,  as 


106  THE  LADY  OF   THE   GULF. 

though  she  was  not  quite  sure  she  should  have 
told   him.     She   continued: 

"The  artist  went  away.  I  never  gave  him  a 
tender  thought.  But  every  time  I  went  into  the 
church  I  saw  that  portrait.  I  thought  not  of  the 
artist.  Through  my  head  rang  his  continual 
praises  of  your  name.     And  then,  you  came — 

"So  you  see/'  she  said,  nodding  her  head  and 
blinking  tear-filled  eyes,  "  you  must  help  me  to  go 
away." 

She  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands  and  silently 
wept  while  Philippe  plucked  at  the  grass  with 
downcast  lids.  Quickly  drying  her  tears,  she 
placed  the  little  whistle  to  her  lips  and  blew  three 
shrill  notes.  That  was  the  signal  for  dinner.  He 
helped  her  prepare  the  meal.  The  children  were 
all  fond  of  him  and  hailed  him  with  delight. 

Father  Renaud  stayed  to  dinner  with  them,, 
but  after  the  luncheon,  he  went  down  the  hill  and 
along  the  hot,  dusty  road  to  the  village.  As  he 
walked  he  once  more  read  his  mother's  letter, 
and  the  paragraph  which  troubled  him.  It  ran 
thus: 

"  I  am  often  lonely  and  restless  now  in  my  old 
age.     I  could  wish  at  times  that  your  life  had 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   GULF.  107 

been  different;  that  you,  my  only  son,  could  have 
married  and  had  children  to  play  about  my 
knees  in  this  big  house.  Yet  you  followed  my 
wishes  and  I  must  abide  by  the  result.  Your 
father  has  never  ceased  to  mourn  your  vocation 
in  life.  With  you,  he  says,  the  race  becomes 
extinct.'^ 

He  thrust  the  letter  back  into  his  cassock  and 
proceeded  on  his  way.  The  smile  of  renuncia- 
tion illumined  his  features,  and  a  steadfast  purpose 
beamed  in  the  dark,  soft  eyes.  Once  more,  he 
thought  of  Sister  Cecilia;  again  he  saw  her  pre- 
paring lunch  with  the  children  clustered  around 
her  as  she  bent  over  the  white  cloth  on  the  grass. 
Again  he  saw  her  expressive  face  as  he  talked 
with  her  apart  while  the  little  ones  ate  unheeding. 

Friday  morning  there  was  the  greatest  con- 
sternation in  the  convent.  Nuns  were  runnings 
forward  to  Mother  Elizabeth,  and  the  Mother 
Superior  in  turn  waddled  her  fat  body  in  haste 
back  to  the  bare  little  closet  of  Sister  Cecilia. 

Everything  was  in  order,  but  there  was  little  to 
disturb. 

Hanging  up  in  one  corner  were  the  coarse 


108  THE  LADY   OF   THE   GULF. 

black  serge  gown,  the  white  bonnet  and  cape, 

the    chain    and    girdle    which    were    wont    to 

softly  envelop  the  form  of  Sister  Cecilia.     Poking 

the  folds  of  the  habit.  Mother  Elizabeth  found  a 

note  pinned  to  the  fabric.     She  hastily  tore  it  open 

and  read: 

"Reverend    Mother    Superior:    Adieu,    adieu, 

kind,  good  woman.     I  know  thou  wilt  not  miss 

my  troublesome  spirit,  and  I  beg  thee  not  to  fret 

over  my  mysterious  exit.     I  am  gone  into  the 

world  to  seek  a  broader  life,  and,  please  God,  to 

find  happiness. 

''Sister  Cecilia.." 

In  great  dismay,  the  Superioress  set  forth  to 
the  Academy  to  consult  with  Father  Renaud. 

Alas !  At  the  Academy,  also,  there  was  running 
to  and  fro  and  shaking  of  heads. 

Philippe  Renaud,  the  noble  young  priest  of 
such  brilliant  promise,  had  fled  from  the  village. 

His  black  cassock  hung  upon  the  hook  in  his 
bedroom,  and  pinned  within  its  folds  they  found 
a  note. 

"Farewell,"  it  said;  "good  brethren  all,  and  you. 
Brother  Felix,  pray  for  my  soul.  I  am  of  the 
conviction  that  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  live 


THE   LADY   OF    THE   GULF.  10^ 

alone.  Being  about  to  take  unto  myself  a  wife 
and  become  a  husband,  I  am  constrained  to  sur- 
render the  Church.  With  this  act,  I  cease  being 
a  Father;  but  who  knows  what  recompense  the 
future  may  not  hold,  so  that,  in  time,  I  may  be- 
come one  again?  God  grant  you  a  worthier  suc- 
cessor to 

* 'Philippe    Renaud." 

As  for  Brother  Felix,  he  laughed  aloud.  Once 
alone,  he  straightway  fell  on  his  knees  in  prayer. 
Long  he  remained  thus  motionless,  and  when  at 
last  he  arose,  the  silent  walls  heard  him  whisper 
Renee's  name. 


On  a  Louisiana  plantation,  a  white-haired  old 
man  wept  tears  of  sudden  joy  over  the  fair  hand 
of  his  son's  wife. 

"Now,  Suzanne,"  cried  Philippe,  gayly;  "now, 
tell  us  about  that  object  in  life  you  would  not  dis- 
close when  I  was  your  confessor!" 

But  Suzanne  Renaud  looked  at  him  with  grave, 
sweet  eyes: 

"It  was  this,"  she  said ;  "I  knew  from  your  gaze 
and  your  words  that  you  loved  me.     Like  the 


110  THE  LADY   OF   THE   GULF. 

woman  of  old  in  the  garden,  I  had  determined 
to  tempt  you.  I  knew  it  would  spoil  your  career, 
perhaps,  but  I  had  determined  to  have  you  marry 
tne." 

Again  she  smiled. 

"That  was  my  object  in  life,  Philippe." 

"Well,  how  did  you  accomplish  your  object, 
tny  daughter?"  asked  the  old  man.  "Did  you 
plan  the  elopement?" 

There  was  a  duet  of  hearty  laughter  from  the 
young  people. 

"The  woods  tell  no  tales,"  cried  Philippe,  with 
his  arm  about  his  wife's  slender  waist.  "It  is 
almost  enough  to  know  that  it  was  I  who  pro- 
posed the  marriage.  It  is  entirely  enough  to 
know  that  we  have  found  happiness  in  the  pros- 
pect of  being  together  forever." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
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